Colour Blind
by Azusina
Summary: After he died and came back to life something shifted in Harry's brain. Now he sees colours when he hears sounds, but is otherwise colour blind. During his 8th year he stumbles across the old music wing and hears a piano and someone singing in French...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Sigh. I wish Harry and Draco were mine, but sadly they aren't. Everything is J.K. Rowling's…

**Summary:** After dying and coming back to life, something shifted in Harry's brain. Now he sees shapes of colour when he hears sounds, but is otherwise completely colourblind. During his eighth year at Hogwarts he stumbles across the old music wing and overhears a piano and someone singing in French…

**A/N: **This is a strange little thing that popped into my head after I saw some moonstones in a shop in Whistler and fell in love. It does actually have a plot, unlike Ameliorate, but will probably develop slowly. Now, without further ado, please enjoy Colour blind!

**Colour blind**

**Preface**

Harry trudged up to his dorm and collapsed into his bed. It was all over; Voldemort was dead, the last remaining death eaters were being hunted down now, and the war was officially won. Harry'd imagined this moment many times; he'd thought he would feel elated and free but all he felt was a bone-deep exhaustion.

The war was won, but so much was lost… the Great Hall was filled with corpses and just the thought of Remus, Tonks, Fred, or any of the others who'd died made Harry's gut feel like it was eating itself up. He'd tried to stay and help out with all of the grieving families but Molly had fussed over him, even as weary as she was, and he'd finally agreed to return to his room and rest.

He'd felt horrible there, with the whole Weasley family grieving around him. They'd essentially adopted him as their own, but even still he felt that he was intruding on their grief. It was as if a great big weight was on his back comprised of his own immeasurable grief for Fred, the awkward feeling that he was encroaching on their family, and the horrible thought that it was all his fault which he _knew _was irrational and false but he couldn't help what he felt… In truth, he'd felt somewhat relieved to be able to escape all of that, but then he'd felt guilty for feeling relieved and it all came full circle.

And now here he was, lying in bed, trying and failing to fall asleep. He'd reached that point where it was actually painful to stay awake, but he just _could not fall asleep_. Yet, it almost felt as if he were asleep. It had felt that way—as if reality was tinged with a dream-like quality—ever since he came back from the place that looked like King's Cross. Throughout the last battle, his mind had been feeling oddly woolly and his eyes had been itching, his vision distorting at odd moments, but he'd been too busy to pay it much mind. Now he had a chance to think on it, but he couldn't tell if it was simply due to the exhaustion or if it was something else.

He turned over and buried his face in his pillow. His mind shifted briefly to a subject it frequented often, especially in the past year once he'd acknowledged his maybe-sort-of-feelings. It was almost automatic, the way that his thoughts turned to Draco Malfoy.

_Draco_.

Whom he'd last glimpsed sitting in the great hall with Narcissa and Lucius, looking forlorn and unsure. What would happen to him, Harry wondered. He hoped Lucius went to Azkaban, but he didn't want that for Draco, and after she saved him Harry decided he didn't want that for Naricssa either.

Absently Harry realized that he still had Draco's wand. He would have to give it back as soon as he could; hopefully the Malfoys wouldn't leave before he could talk to them.

_At least Draco's still alive__…_

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of pounding pain in his head and horrible itchy ache behind his eyes, he fell into a blessed sleep that was so deep he was spared even from nightmares.

* * *

With a yawn so big he could feel his jaw crack, Harry awoke. He sat up, blearily rubbing his eyes, and then slowly stopped as he realized something was wrong. The light shining in from the window wasn't the gentle yellow it was supposed to be; instead it was a muted grey… With a start Harry looked around him, at his usually obnoxiously red and gold dorm. With a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach, it dawned on him that he couldn't tell what was gold and what was red. Everything was a wash of different shades of grey.

His head was beginning to feel light, and he realized that he'd forgotten to breath. Harry exhaled loudly, and jumped when suddenly a splash of muted brown appeared before his eyes.

_What the hell__…__? _

It was as if there was a screen a foot away from his eyes, a screen that had suddenly shown a wonky shape of brown. With a weary curiosity, Harry waved his hand in front of his face, but there was nothing there. _Strange. _Perhaps it was just his imagination. But he couldn't put the sudden lack of colour off as his imagination too. Unnerved, Harry climbed out of bed and immediately tripped on the shoes he'd left right there, flailing about for a moment before landing with a crash on his trunk. A burst of blue appeared and disappeared in time with the clatter.

Suspicious, Harry clapped his hands and a streak of yellow crossed his vision. _Okay, so sounds make colours. But other than that, everything else is colourless. _For some reason, understanding it somewhat didn't make it any less alarming, but having solved that mystery, Harry looked around the dorm and saw that Ron, Seamus, and Dean had come back last night and were still slumbering despite the racket he'd made. Harry hurried over to Ron's bed, where he was still snoring along, fast asleep, and debated whether or not he should wake him. He decided against it; they'd all just fought a war after all, and Ron had lost his brother. Whatever was going on with his sight and the colours wasn't life-threatening and could wait. Having decided that, Harry shuffled down to the common room, hoping Hermione was up and would be able to offer an explanation.

* * *

**Part One**

Hermione hadn't been in the common room at that time, but later she'd predictably come up with a theory. She'd said that this kind of occurrence was unprecedented with wizards, but she'd read about something similar in the muggle world. There was apparently something called synaesthesia that described the whole thing with sounds making colours. It had something to do with his brain mixing up the signals from one sense to the other; Harry hadn't really understood much of it, but Hermione'd said that basically it meant something had shifted in his brain. She'd assured him that it wasn't anything to be too alarmed about. He'd died and come back to life. It was understandable that something might have gone wrong in his brain during the process. In any case, it might very well wear off, according to her. In the meantime, it was simply an unusual—but perfectly harmless—annoyance.

After Harry'd interrogated her about his newest oddity, he'd rushed to the dungeons to return the hawthorn wand. He'd caught Draco just outside of the Slytherin common room, and promptly handed it back. Draco had looked bewildered and confused, but uttered a small "Thank you" that was too quiet to register as any colour. Once that was done, Harry had returned to the Great Hall and helped with the arduous task of identifying all of the dead, and arranging proper burials.

Throughout the next couple weeks, Harry had mused that he probably saw more colour than anyone else despite his apparent colour-blindness. He still had some colour, although most of it was muted, (he had yet to hear a sound that registered as vibrant) whereas everyone else saw close to none save the green of the grass, the brown of the dirt, and the blue of the sky. Everything else was dressed up in black or grey in mourning. It had made Harry sad that the first time he saw so many lilies they were all being placed on graves.

After that, everyone had been very busy with frantically repairing Hogwarts so that it would be able to open in September. Harry had passed his birthday working on the grounds, rebuilding walls and mending broken wards.

Even though he was busy in Hogwarts, Harry had left periodically to attend hearings at the Ministry. He'd testified both for and against an innumerable amount of people. The only case that stood out to him when he had testified for the Malfoy family. He'd told the court about how Draco had been forced into service for Voldemort against his will, how he'd refrained from killing Dumbledore, how he'd saved Harry at the Manor by not identifying him, how he'd saved him again in the Room of Requirement by stopping Crabbe from killing him, and how Narcissa had enabled him to kill Voldemort once and for all by falsely proclaiming him dead. His good word had resulted in Lucius getting a life sentence in Azkaban, Narcissa being put under house arrest, and Draco on probation. During the trial, Harry had watched Draco closely, but he'd kept his head down and not looked at Harry once. That had been the last time Harry saw any of the Malfoys over the summer.

Towards the end of August, Mcgonagall had approached him to ask if he would return for another year. She'd explained that the castle would be open to "eighth years" since many of them hadn't received a proper education but still wished to be able to sit their NEWTS. Harry had been conflicted: of course he wanted to remain in Hogwarts for as long as possible; it was his home, but at the same time he knew that it wouldn't be the same Hogwarts he'd attended for six years, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to face all of the changes. In the end, it had been Hermione who'd decided it for him. She was set on sitting her NEWTS, no question, and she'd convinced Ron to join her (it hadn't been that hard; Ron wanted to stay close to her). Harry had wanted to stay with them, so he decided to return as well.

Of course, he had wondered constantly whether Draco would be returning or not. He'd asked Mcgonagall and she had told him that a letter had been sent to Malfoy but she didn't know whether he would come or not. Harry would have to wait for September to find out.

Once his colour issues had been deemed safe by Hermione, the rest of the world promptly forgot about it. But Harry couldn't, and although it didn't really interfere with his life, it was still quite strange. During the summer Harry had learned a lot about it just by paying attention.

He'd learned that different sounds meant different shapes and colours, and that not all sounds made colours. Generally, each person's voice registered as one colour-shape. They weren't always just simple solid colour blobs, though. For example, Hermione's voice looked like whorls of soft green with little pink blooms. Ron's voice was like vertical cyan lines with blobs of orange behind them. That was another thing, if Harry heard multiple sounds at once; they layered themselves as if there wasn't one screen but multiple. Also, the colours weren't opaque, but rather quite translucent so that they didn't interfere with Harry's vision.

It was bizarre though: because Harry was otherwise colourblind, the world would show up in weird tones of whatever colours he heard. When all was silent, or when Harry only heard sounds that didn't register as any colour, the world was grey. During these moments, Harry had found himself strangely missing colour. He hadn't realized how much he valued organized colour until it was gone. So he'd hated total silence, because even though the sound colours were odd and inexplicable and always slightly muted, at least they were colour. But simultaneously he'd hated being immersed in many sounds because, although they were transparent, it still got quite distracting when there were so many colours and shapes on top of each other.

He had found himself avoiding crowds and he'd requested to work on his own for the construction at Hogwarts; mostly he'd worked on the wards. Magic didn't make lots of crashing and grinding sounds, but Harry'd discovered that he could hear it, if he concentrated enough. The sound that magic made was barely audible, but for some reason it still registered as tiny flitting specks of gold or silver. If he strained his ears he could just make out the soft hum the wards emitted. It was quite pleasant, actually.

The weeks leading up to September 1st were spent by Harry working patiently on repairing the various wards of Hogwarts, a task that he thoroughly enjoyed. It was calming and he often found his mind drifting… vaguely wondering what Draco's voice would look like…

* * *

Harry closed his eyes, but that didn't help. The colours merely played themselves out on the backs of his eyelids. Bursts of blue and washes of yellow, stripes of purple and wonky triangles of maroon… They were slowly giving him a headache. Nonetheless, Harry found himself veritably shaking with anticipation.

_Is he here?_

It was the first day back, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione were making their way to the Great Hall. They were surrounded by chattering students, the din occasionally broken by one student yelling to a spotted friend across the corridor. Behind that, there was the swoosh of robes, the scuffing of shoes against stone, and the low crackle and pop of the torches… Harry alternately closed his eyes against the onslaught of colour and opened them wide, frantically looking around, hoping to catch a glimpse of white hair.

Finally, they entered the Hall and found seats at the Gryffindor table. Harry sat on the far side so that he could see Slytherin table without turning around. Once the crowd had mostly all taken seats Harry had a clear view, and he swiftly swept his eyes over the Slytherin students, ignoring the sharp cyan and green of Hermione and Ron's conversation (read: argument). His breath caught in his throat as his eyes caught on a shock of white.

_He's here!_

Harry passed through the sorting and beginning of term announcements in a colourful daze of happiness. Ron saw his only-slightly-goofy grin, took one glance at the Slytherin table, and turned back to Harry, lifting an eyebrow suggestively.

"Oh Harry," said Hermione with a bloom of green and pink.

"So mate, are you gonna ask him out this year or what?" more cyan and orange.

Harry had told Ron over the summer. He'd been worried about what his best friend's reaction would be, but he'd taken it a lot better than anyone could have expected. Of course, he'd been angry for a while, but he had accepted it pretty quickly. When asked, he'd shrugged and responded that it wasn't actually much of a surprise, especially after sixth year.

"What?" Harry had demanded, "But I hated him sixth year! And I was still going out with Ginny then."

"I know, but I remember what you were like after the whole _sectumsempra _incident. You were close to crying, mate."

"I guess…"

And that had been that. Ron still didn't like it very much, but he understood that you couldn't exactly help who you liked, and he wanted Harry to be happy.

Presently, Harry choked on his pumpkin juice at Ron's suggestion. "Are you mad? Of course not!"

"Why?" asked Ron innocently.

"Because he'd probably faint from shock and then when he woke up he'd murder me and then he'd get sent to Azkaban."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Alright, fine. Well if you're not going to ask him out, what're you going to do?"

"Nothing. I know it's stupid and will never be requited, so I won't do anything about it and hope it goes away."

Hermione and Ron both looked at him with pity; they all knew that it wasn't about to go away any time soon. Harry quickly shoved a spoonful of peas into his mouth to escape having to talk about it anymore. He knew how hopeless he was and didn't particularly want to hash it out right then. It would dim the elation that he was still feeling just from the thought that he'd be able to see Draco every day.

"Ooh, does Harry have a crush already? That was quick."

Copper and red and_ ginger_. Harry wearily turned to Ginny. He remembered how it had been so shocking, the first time she'd spoken to him since the thing with the colours started, to find that although he could no longer see the bright flaming red of her hair, he was now subject to it every time she opened her mouth. It was quite amusing.

They'd ended it once and for all a month after the final battle, Harry slightly chagrined by how unsurprised she was by his admittance that he was gay. Apparently she'd noticed how awkward their encounters had been, and had already been slightly suspicious. Well at least it meant that she hadn't been too hurt, and they'd been able to remain close friends.

"Yeah," said Ron, placing the back of his hand to his forehead and mimicking swooning, "He's bloody whipped—OW!"

Harry looked at Ginny innocently while Ron nursed his injured foot. "I have no interest in anyone whatsoever. Don't listen to your brother; he's completely daft."

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, a frankly alarming smile growing on her face. "Just you wait, Harry James Potter, I'll figure out who the lucky chap is sooner or later."

With that ominous proclamation said, Ginny turned around to chat to Neville.

Harry mouthed, 'HELP ME' to Hermione, who laughed and shook her head. "I'm afraid you're on your own here, Harry."

Dropping his head into his hands, Harry tried to cling to the one thing that would keep him from falling into despair at the thought of Ginny finding out who he liked and inevitably trying to set him up, as he knew she would.

_Draco's here._

* * *

He was in King's Cross again, and Dumbledore was saying something… something important, but Harry couldn't hear him and his vision was getting blocked by blobs of blue and orange.

"Harry, get up! We're going to be late to breakfast!"

Harry grumbled and reached out to grapple for his glasses, found them and jammed them onto his face. The last dredges of his dream slipped away while he brushed his teeth and attempted to tame his hair. He knew it had been an important dream, but for the life of him couldn't remember it. While he was hastily tying his tie (Ron was jumping up and down in impatience), it suddenly hit him that he didn't _have_ to try to remember. Voldemort was gone, and his dreams no longer mattered. It was strange how it sometimes occurred to him in odd moments; he'd pause in whatever he was doing and suddenly just think, _it's over. He's gone. _And feel a rush of relief and grief that left him feeling oddly befuddled.

After meeting Hermione in the common room, they went down to the Great Hall, Harry wondering vaguely what classes he'd have with Draco (and hoping that there were many).

When they arrived, breakfast was already in full swing. Harry blinked, dazed, as he sank onto the bench and automatically selected some pancakes and toast. Last night he'd been pretty distracted by thoughts of Draco, but this morning it hit him full-on; all of the sounds and resulting colour shapes were really quite annoying. He felt a headache developing as he poured syrup all over his plate.

A gentle swoop of beige with occasional, surprising streaks of gold appeared in front of the layers of general din.

"Did you guys see this?" asked Neville who was presently reading the Prophet that had presumably arrived before Harry and co. got there.

"What is it?" prompted Hermione.

"Apparently the Unspeakables are doing some kind of research into destroying black magic itself. The Ministry is talking about a campaign to rid the world of dark magic once and for all to prevent another Grindelwald or Voldemort—" Harry felt a brief spark of pride that Neville could say the name so easily. "Is that even possible?"

"I don't know," replied Hermione, thinking avidly. "I guess it could be, if the Unspeakables are working on it they may have found something, but it could also just be propaganda."

"Hmm… well my gran said that—"

Harry tuned out, choosing to let the colours wash over him instead of trying to listen while his eyes were getting battered. It really was quite uncomfortable…

Hours later, Harry told Hermione and Ron that he was going to take meals in the kitchen. They were worried about him, but he assured them that it was just annoying and he'd be more comfortable where there was less noise. Still, they didn't like the idea of him always eating alone, so they decided that they would join him in the kitchens for dinner. They fell into a sort of routine after that, with Harry rarely going to the Great Hall for meals.

It was surprising how quickly he finished eating when there weren't people to have conversations with. Harry found himself with a lot of free time during meal periods, and he took to wandering the castle. It somehow seemed to fit, him drifting about aimlessly. That's how he felt these days: as if he didn't really know where he was going. His purpose was fulfilled, and now he felt as if he were just…floating along. He knew everyone expected him to marry Ginny and become an Auror, but Ginny was definitely not going to work out and he wasn't really sure whether he wanted to be an Auror. He was pretty tired of fighting the bad guys, to be perfectly honest.

He sighed as he walked up a staircase. Suddenly, with a jolt, it started moving. Harry stumbled and caught himself on the railing, feeling a forbidding sense of déjà vu from first year. The staircase stopped abruptly and Harry looked up to see where it now led. A corridor that he didn't think he'd ever been down before. With a shrug, he walked up the rest of the stairs and into the hallway.

The corridor felt somehow brighter and airier than the others in the castle. One side (Harry's left) was just a row of large stone arches opening out onto a courtyard that was filled with a pleasant garden. Harry acutely wished he could see the colours of the many flowers that were blooming instead of seeing them in shades of grey. A fountain in the middle made thin lines of pale yellow fall before his eyes, but other than that it was silent.

Harry continued walking, feeling light and calm and enjoying the gentle silence that was somehow different than the cold silence the rest of the castle exuded. The wall to his right was periodically broken by windows and doors that led into small rooms. Harry peered into one and saw a dusty chalkboard on one wall, a couple chairs, and two rather lonely looking music stands. He wondered what these rooms were used for once upon a time; they didn't look as if anyone had been in them for many years.

As Harry continued to meander his way down the hall, he began to realize that something was breaking the serene silence. Intrigued, he hurried to the source of the sound.

Stopping short outside a closed door, Harry slumped against the wall in shock. He could hear, quite clearly, a piano playing, the delicate notes running in a beautiful, complicated melody. Softly accompanying the piano, someone was singing. Harry was confused for a moment, as he couldn't understand the lyrics, until he realized that the words were French.

Flickers of cerulean and sun-yellow and blood-red danced across his eyes. Delicate spirals of viridian and streaks of lavender, strings of fuchsia and waves of turquoise. And on top of the flowing and twirling piano, the tender voice, the most beautiful colour Harry had seen yet. A softly shifting wash of azure, ultramarine, royal blue—the brightest hues of blue he'd encountered with these new eyes, yet it wasn't obnoxious, not at all… all shining through fragile veins of snow-bright white.

Harry lost himself in the song and the kaleidoscope of colours, all sense of time forgotten. Gently, gently, the song came to an end, and when the last silhouettes of colour faded out Harry found his cheeks were wet.

It had been months since he'd last seen organized colour, and somehow the lilting melody had rendered a scene of thousands of colours that somehow all seemed to go together in perfect harmony. Where the clamour of the Great Hall had been chaos, this was order, and it was beautiful. And that voice…

Suddenly, Harry felt an urge to quietly slip away. He didn't know who'd been playing the piano and singing, though there was something achingly familiar about the voice, but Harry inexplicably didn't want to find out who it belonged to. For now, he wished to cherish the music that he had stumbled upon without pinning it to a face. So he silently stole away, deliberately not looking at the open window into the auditorium the music had been coming from.

A small smile remained on Harry's face throughout the rest of the day, as he played the lullaby over and over in his head. He was feeling so calm and content that he went to the Great Hall for dinner, which resulted in smiles of delight on Ron and Hermione's faces as well. As he drifted off to sleep that night, Harry wondered if the mystery singer/pianist would return to that corridor the next day. He grinned, feeling giddy at the thought, and fell into pleasant dreams of flittering rainbows and thin, pale fingers dancing across piano keys.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Sigh. I wish Harry and Draco were mine, but sadly they aren't. Everything is J.K. Rowling's…

**A/N: **A random little note that I discovered whilst writing this. Did you know that there are a crazy amount of splendid synonyms to the word "din"? I looked it up on because I didn't want to keep writing "din" all the time. I knew most of them, but seeing them all in one place was wonderful. Here are some of the more awesome ones that I love but don't want to use because they're too comical: Brouhaha, hoo-ha, hullabaloo, hurly-burly, tintinnabulation. Tintinnabulation means the ringing or sound of bells. What a wonderful word. AND I USED IT. I'm so proud.

* * *

**Colour blind **

**Part 2**

Harry dipped his bacon in the puddle of syrup that was his plate, coating it thoroughly before taking a bite. Hermione shot him a deprecating look over the top of the Prophet she was reading; Harry flashed her a toothy grin in response. He'd never been able to have much syrup at the Dursleys, and he'd developed a habit of using a copious amount of it now that he could.

The good mood from yesterday had carried over to this morning, and consequently Harry had joined the rest of the school in the Great Hall for breakfast. It wasn't actually all that loud, and Harry realized that the first morning had probably been especially raucous since everyone had been agitated because of their new classes. Now that people had settled in somewhat and were tired in the mornings instead of excited, the clamour had reduced down to a soft din that Harry could almost ignore. Perhaps he'd stop eating breakfast in the kitchens; it _was_ getting quite lonely.

Besides, hopefully whoever had been playing and singing in that corridor would continue, and Harry would be able to go and listen again, thus continuing his high spirits.

"Hey, Hermione," said Harry.

"Hmm?" She looked up from the Prophet.

"You know all about Hogwarts, right?"

"Well I've read _Hogwarts, a History_, if that's what you mean."

"Do you know of a corridor in the castle that's not in use anymore?"

"Of course, there're plenty. Why do you ask?"

Harry explained about the corridor he'd found on the eighth floor, and described to her the small rooms and large auditorium from whence he'd heard the piano and singing.

"I think that would be the old music wing. Hogwarts used to have an orchestra, did you know that?"

"An orchestra?"

"Yeah, it was a class you could take, but it was ended before the first wizarding war. Classical music used to be quite prevalent in wizarding society, but it's sort of died out lately… although I have heard that it's still pretty important in old pureblood families."

"Huh." Harry contemplated that until it was time for them to go to their first class, while Ron and Hermione bickered about nothing.

* * *

Today was their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the year, and the Gryffindor and Slytherin eighth years (they shared DADA and potions) were quite excited. Mcgonagall hadn't announced who the new teacher was at the welcoming feast as was traditional, so the identity of their new professor was still a mystery and had been a source of much speculation. The rumours ran from their teacher being an extremely attractive woman from America, to being the Minister of Magic himself. Ron swore that Seamus had told him that he'd heard from Parvati who got it from her sister Padma in Ravenclaw that Malcom Baddock in Slytherin had overheard Slughorn saying that their new Defence teacher was actually Salazar Slytherin who'd been in animagus form for the past ten centuries as the giant squid. Personally, Harry was just hoping that whoever it was would be able to hold the position for more than a year.

Harry's vision was clouded with the browns and oranges of students fidgeting in their seats and murmuring avidly as they waited for their new teacher to arrive. Harry worried that he'd be too distracted by the moving colours in his vision to properly see the teacher when he or she did come.

He needn't have worried, as the moment the door at the end of the room opened the whole class fell silent.

As Harry watched their new professor slip from shadow to shadow, making his way to the front of the room, he wished he could see what colour his hair or robes were. For all he knew, the high-collared, floor length robes (Harry felt a slight pang as he realized that they were slightly reminiscent of Snape's common attire) could have been a deep red or navy blue, or they could have just been the almost-black that they appeared to Harry's eyes.

He stepped into the grey light behind his desk and Harry realized that he'd seen this new teacher before, in sixth year. Harry knew that the long black hair was indeed black and that the pale, sallow skin was actually that shade of white-grey. He was handsome enough in a gaunt, pointy sort of way, but he looked pretty bored.

Harry wondered how the parents that protested Remus's appointment of DADA professor would respond to a vampire teaching their children.

"I am Sanguini and will be teaching you children Defense Against the Dark Arts this year," he sighed. Harry saw a watery wash of burgundy. "Are there any questions so far?"

"Yes," he gestured vaguely towards Millicent Bulstrodes' raised hand.

"Bulstrode, sir. Millicent Bulstrode."

"Did you have a question, Millicent? Or did you just wish to impart me with your name, which for some reason I can't recall asking for."

Bulstrode looked taken aback, but she quickly recovered. "Are you a vampire, sir?"

Sanguini gazed at her as if she was the most boring thing on the planet. "No, I am not a vampire," he said in complete solemnity, "I am, in fact, the sole prince and heir of the king of the wrackspurts." He turned away from a very confused Bulstrode, apparently having finished with her answer. "Does anyone else have any questions? Alright, then we'll proceed. Take out your books."

"_The Dark Arts, a Comprehensive Guide_, sir?" inquired Hermione.

"And you must be the brightest witch of your age," he drawled. Hermione blushed. "No, my dear, I don't want you to take out the only textbook that was required for this class, I thought I'd made it quite obvious that I was asking you to get out your Herbology book."

Hermione frowned, confused. Harry supressed a grin; he liked their new teacher already.

* * *

Professor Sanguini proved to be the best Defence teacher they'd ever had, besides Remus of course. Many students found him unsettling at first, as they couldn't tell when he was being serious or not. He used sarcasm liberally and with the straightest face. He would say the strangest things whilst looking utterly bored with everything. But once they figured out his odd brand of humour, they realized that he really knew what he was talking about and they learned quite a lot. By the end of the first week Sanguini had become the favourite teacher of many.

Harry worried about negative reactions to his vampirism, but surprisingly for him, there weren't many. Apparently the wizarding world didn't have the same hatred of vampires as they did for werewolves. Also, with the war over, many people thought that there was no more danger, especially with the Ministry progressing in their campaign to get rid of dark magic.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was quickly becoming Harry's favourite subject. Not only was the teacher brilliant, Draco was in it too. Throughout class, Harry found himself periodically glancing at the platinum blond head. At first, this always made him feel slightly giddy. After a week or so of it, though, he began to get frustrated. Draco never talked to him even when they were paired together in practical lessons, in fact, Draco never talked to anyone. Harry wondered why he was even _in_ Hogwarts—he seemed to hate it thoroughly. He didn't socialize, and when Harry did go to meals he rarely saw him there.

When Harry'd first realized that he might-perhaps-maybe have some feelings for Malfoy, it had caught him completely by surprise. It had happened when he and Hermione were camping in the wild; Ron had already left at that point. During those couple dreary weeks, Harry found himself imagining what would happen after the war in order to stave off despair. Hermione and Ron would of course become a proper couple, and Harry imagined he'd be able to have a proper relationship as well. But somehow, when he imagined those moments, instead of Ginny, Malfoy had kept popping into his head.

And then they'd gone to Malfoy Manor and Harry had stared at Draco as he'd stared at Harry, and Harry'd seen all of the fear and exhaustion in his eyes, and Harry had _known _that he would be the coward that he always was and turn them all in because Harry'd seen the recognition in his eyes-Draco had known exactly who Harry was—but he _hadn't turned them in_. Harry'd felt shock and something else, something strange, something close to pride…

And then so much had happened in the Room of Requirement. Draco had stopped Crabbe and Goyle from killing Harry. For the first time, Harry'd seen that he actually did care for Crabbe and Goyle beyond their bodyguard capabilities-Malfoy'd tried to save them, and when Crabbe died he was truly upset. When Harry'd saved him from the fiendfyre and felt Draco's wiry arms wrapped desperately around him, his stomach had done that strange flipping thing it'd only ever done when Harry was kissing Ginny. At that point, Harry couldn't deny it any longer; he admitted to himself that he liked Draco Malfoy.

It had been a relief, at first, to acknowledge it. He'd broken up with Ginny and told Ron and Hermione. He'd enjoyed the little fluttery feeling he got whenever he saw Draco around school. Of course, this was all with the knowledge that he'd never act on his feelings in mind. He expected it to be a stupid infatuation that would pass in time; he knew that even if Malfoy didn't loathe him with a passion anymore, he was most likely completely straight and would never reciprocate Harry's feelings. So Harry didn't do anything about his crush, expecting it to pass.

As the days wore on, however, the number of glances he unconsciously shot to Malfoy never waned, and Harry was beginning to get frustrated with himself. He tried not to think of Malfoy at all. The most effective method of distraction was returning to the eighth floor corridor.

The singer/piano player wasn't always there, but Harry had taken to sitting in the courtyard garden during his free time in the hopes of hearing the beautiful music he'd heard that first day. When he did hear the first cadence of the piano, he would make his way to just outside the door of the auditorium. He would sit there at the foot of the door and listen to his heart's content, basking in the myriad of colours from the piano and the shimmering white-blue of the singer's lilting French. When he stopped singing, or when it was time for Harry to go to class, he would leave as quickly and quietly as he could, always deliberately avoiding looking in the open window to the auditorium.

* * *

Pulling at his scarf, Harry shifted from foot to foot. Why didn't Filch check the permission slips _faster_? At this rate, they'd all have graduated before they got to Hogsmead. It was the first weekend they were allowed to go, and Harry was eager to go down and look around without any drama or danger hanging over his hand. Just him and his friends and a day into town, like any other eighteen-year-old.

Ron was beside him, practically drooling. "Did you hear, Harry? Honeydukes's got all new products! Weasley Wizard Wheezes has been giving them some serious competition so they've had to come up with new stuff; I hear it's great!"

"Yeah, it's going to be brilliant," agreed Harry, just as Hermione said, "Yes we _know, _Ronald, you've told us just about five hundred times."

"Do you think Professor Sanguini would give me an O on my essay if I bought him some bloodpops?"

"Your essay? Oh, so you've written it then?" Hermione arched an eyebrow at him.

"Er, well… hey look, Filch's finished checking permission slips! We can go!"

Ron ran off, as Harry, snickering, and Hermione, shaking her head, followed at a more reasonable pace.

As they walked down to the village they passed a group of raucous Ravenclaws who were laughing uproariously and shouting over each other. Harry winced at the sudden onslaught of sharp yellows and brownish greens. He wasn't so distracted, however, that he missed the heated glare Hermione sent them and was taken aback. The last time Hermione'd had that glint in her eye was right before she'd punched Malfoy in the face.

"So what'd they do to you?" enquired Ron who'd jogged back to them just in time to catch Hermione's glower.

"Oh, they just cause a lot of trouble for the prefects, who always come running to me for help." Hermione was Head Girl this year. "They're just a bunch of bullies who've been terrorizing the Slytherins."

"What? Why?" asked Ron.

"They've been saying that they're 'helping the Ministry rid the world of dark wizards.' Honestly, it's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she huffed. "And it's not just them, I've even caught Hufflepuffs bullying the Slytherin first years."

"That's horrible," said Harry. "They're using the Ministry as an excuse? Is it really getting rid of dark magic?" He'd stopped reading the Prophet during the war and hadn't bothered to start up again.

Hermione nodded as the continued on down the road. "Apparently, the Unspeakables have developed a method of separating dark magic from ambient magic and destroying it. There's a new section of the Aurors that's dedicated to going around and doing just that."

"Yeah," chimed in Ron, "I overheard my dad telling Professor Mcgonagall about that yesterday. (As Charity Burbage had died at Malfoy Manor, Hogwart's had been in need of a Muggle studies teacher and Arthur had jumped at the chance. He now worked at Hogwarts during the day and flooed home at night, but he still had some connections in the Ministry) They're called the Magnificent Exterminators or something."

"The Maleficium Extirpators," corrected Hermione. "They've mainly been going to old Death Eater houses."

"Huh. Do they really think that they'll prevent another dark lord from ever rising?" Harry asked, honestly curious.

"I don't know. It all seems quite superficial to me, though," replied Hermione. "I'm still not confident that they're actually able to destroy dark magic. It's awfully convenient, isn't it?"

Harry and Ron nodded. Wouldn't that be easy, if there was a sure-fire way to rid the world of evil once and for all?

At this point, they reached Honeydukes and abandoned all serious thought in favour of thoroughly examining all of the new products. It was quite busy in there, and Harry's vision was filled with a cloud of chaotic colour. For once, though, he wasn't annoyed by it. Looking through the layers of reds, greens, and yellows, he could almost imagine that he was seeing the bright colours of the myriad of treats lining the shelves.

After fifteen minutes of Harry and Ron drooling at the candies, Hermione informed them that she was going to Tomes and Scrolls, the local bookshop. Ron nodded absently and waved a hand at her vaguely. She left, rolling her eyes.

Honeydukes had truly outdone themselves. Their store was packed with students looking at the new products. There were towers of writhing cinnamon snakes, whose insides contained a fizzy jelly and who looked suspiciously authentic (they definitely weren't real, though, as their hissing was just a bunch of gibberish to Harry's ears). The walls were lined with jars of nougat newts, hopping hares, gargantuan gumballs, and an inexpressible amount of new Bertie Bott's every flavour beans. On one shelf was a veritable mountain of flaming fudge, right beside the fountain of invisible icing. A glass display in the very centre of the store housed a full-size chocolate broom that, supposedly, actually flew. There was a placard beside it that read:

**WARNING**

**Do not fly in the sun lest you wish to follow in Icarus's footsteps covered in chocolate.**

Ron's eyes were as big as saucers, and Harry was feeling very glad that he'd withdrawn a sizeable amount of gold from Gringotts before school started. They both filled their large baskets to the brim and spent another fifteen minutes gawking before going up to the counter to pay.

As they left the store, weighed down with sweets, Harry grinned at Ron who was somehow managing to look both euphoric and tortured at the same time.

"I've just used all of my allowance for the past _year_," he said morosely. "But it was definitely worth it," he finished with glee. "That was bloody _wicked_, mate. You know, I think they may even have outdone Fred and George. Man, I can't wait to shove it in George's face."

George had continued the shop, claiming that his twin would probably come back from the grave to haunt him if he abandoned it. Angelina Johnson was helping out there, and George seemed to be doing alright, all things considered. The whole family was of course still in mourning, but they were slowly moving on. Harry smiled at the way Ron was able to talk about him now, his voice only slightly catching.

"I know. We're going to be set for at least a week," said Harry, examining the contents of his bag. "Hey, do you want to head over to the Hog's Head now?"

"Nah, I think I'm gunna go rescue Hermione," answered Ron, shrinking his Honeydukes bag and stuffing it in a pocket. "She's probably buried in books and dust and suffocating as we speak! You wanna come?"

Harry shook his head. He knew that Ron wanted to spend time with Hermione and was pleased that Ron'd invited him, despite that. "No, it's alright. I think I'm going to wander around for a bit. I don't think I've ever really explored Hogsmead properly, you know?"

"Sounds good. See you later then!"

"Yup." Harry watched Ron stroll off for a bit before looking around him, trying to decide where he should go.

He ended up wandering around rather aimlessly with his hands in his pockets, peering into shop windows and occasionally going in.

* * *

The sun was casting long shadows across the buildings, and the warmth of the sunny day was getting cooler. Harry cast a quick tempus and decided that he should probably head to the Hogs Head where Hermione and Ron were doubtless waiting for him. He was just about to turn around and head back when a small sign with faded, spirally lettering that spelled out "Aoide and Aria" caught his eye.

The shop was small and inconspicuous. A tiny bell tinkled when Harry stepped through the door. The light that shined in from the storefront window and the multitude of paper lanterns that crowded the ceiling was grey in Harry's vision as it filtered through the floating dust, but the delicate tininnadulation of the bell provided a soft golden glaze, and Harry felt a small melancholic twinge at the semblance of sunshine. He'd never noticed how pleasing the yellow in sunlight was until he saw it as watery grey…

Harry shook his head to rid it of such gloomy thoughts. It was a wonderful day, and quite a delightful little store; he wasn't going to ruin it by moping.

He looked around and realized that he was in a music shop. Flutes and violins hung from the ceiling, cellos and harps leaned against the wall. There were bookshelves of yellowed sheet music and rows of metronomes. In one corner was a desk buried in wood shavings and carving tools, the body of a violin and a half-formed scroll resting on top of it all. Harry looked at a row of two-pronged metal rods in curiosity.

"Those are tuning forks, my dear," came a soft, papery voice from behind him.

Harry turned around to find a small, old lady smiling up at him kindly. She was wearing pale robes and her white hair was tied in a loose bun, many escaped wisps hanging around her wrinkled face.

"Welcome to my shop," she continued, "I'm Carmine Aoide."

"Hello, I'm Harry," said Harry. "Er, what do tuning forks do?"

"They are designed in a way such that, when struck, they resonate at a perfect tone. Go ahead and try it, dear."

Intrigued, Harry picked one up and lightly wacked it on his thigh. It rang a clear C.

"Ah, and isn't that a beautiful baby blue?"

Harry snapped his eyes to Carmine Aoide's, shocked.

Her eyes twinkled as she looked at him, and Harry felt another pang as he thought briefly of Dumbledore.

"You can see it too, can you not? In truth, my dear, I am completely deaf. And yet I have no trouble hearing—my eyes can tell one sound from another as well as any ear can."

Harry didn't know what to say. "But—then—how—did you come back from the dead too?"

She laughed. "Oh goodness no. No, I was born this way. But I can see that you were not… no, you were gifted with this. Then perhaps the nature of your sight is different than mine. Yours, I believe, is meant to serve a purpose."

Harry was quite confused. Wasn't it just something wrong in his brain?

"But enough talk of these things, come, you must look around. I am sure you will find something to your liking here. Take your time; I'm here for your questions if you have them." With those words, she retreated behind the desk and took up the scroll. As Harry browsed the store, he was accompanied by the clear brown sound of wood being carved.

Eventually, Harry came upon an assortment of music boxes. They came in all shapes and sizes and, as Harry discovered when he opened one, the insides were empty. On top of that, the soft music they played wasn't the simple tinkling of muggle music boxes, but rather the full sound of a piano or violin. Harry opened each box briefly, getting a glimpse of each gentle song, until he came upon a small, white box.

It appeared to be carved out of ivory, and was covered in intricate renderings of vines and a flower that Harry had never seen before. He opened it, and didn't close it until the song played to the end. Harry recognized this flow of colour, this dulcet melody. Although a violin had replaced the lyrical French, it was clearly the song that he had first heard playing in the eighth floor corridor and never again since then—whoever was singing had played different songs and, though the others were no less beautiful, this original song had a bittersweet nostalgic note to it that Harry felt resonate deeply.

Harry closed the box and inspected the lid, hoping to find the name of the song. In curling script, with vines and leaves intertwined with the letters, was the simple word _Berceuse_.

"How much is this music box?" asked Harry, walking over to the old lady's work table.

"This… this box was gifted to me many years ago by a little girl who was moving from her childhood into a new life, and did not think she could take it with her. It is very special, and imbued with a magic that even your eyes cannot detect, although you yourself have saved and been saved by it. Yes," she said, her twinkling eyes reflecting the dawning comprehension in Harry's, "That little girl loved this music box very much and entrusted it to me for safe keeping. However, it has grown lonely over the years and I think it has been searching for its next owner. You need give me no money, my dear. Take it, and help it find where it will be loved like it was before."

Harry thanked Carmine profusely and left, slightly baffled by her words, but happy with the little box that he fingered in his pocket as he walked to the Hog's Head to meet Hermione and Ron.

* * *

Humming to himself, Harry made his way through the halls to Gryffindor tower. He'd had a nice dinner in the kitchens—he was in quite a good mood today, but his eyes were already tired from the din of the Hogs Head. It was quite late now, as Harry had kept pausing in his dinner to listen to the little music box, so the halls were pretty empty.

Suddenly, Harry stopped humming: he could hear and see voices, and they were familiar.

He rounded the corner to find the group of Ravenclaws Hermione'd complained about at Hogsmead. They were laughing and sneering, grouped around a figure they had backed against the wall. A figure with platinum blond hair who was presently wiping their mouth—it was obvious he'd just gotten hit.

Harry stepped forward haltingly. One of the Ravenclaws saw him and smirked.

"Hey, look, it's Harry Potter."

The other Ravenclaws looked over to him as well. Draco kept his head down, nursing his split lip.

"Hiya, Harry," said one boy whom Harry recognized as Michael Corner.

Harry was disgusted. Michael had been part of the DA, and though not the nicest boy had at least fought with them against Voldemort. Harry'd thought he had good morals and knew what was right. He didn't think Michael would be the kind of person to lead a group of bullies against a helpless victim. It reminded Harry bitterly of Dursley and his gang.

"What do you think you're doing?" hissed Harry.

Corner grinned at him, apparently not seeing that Harry was none too happy with the situation.

"We're teaching this piece of filth a lesson. Haven't you heard? We've been helping rid the school of Dark Magic. Most of it's in Slytherin, so we've been focusing our efforts there. This here—" he gestured to Draco, "—is the head of all of 'em. A bloody Death Eater, you know? If we can beat the Dark Magic out of him then the whole school will be loads better. Why don't you join us? In fact, I'm surprised you haven't already. We're basically like an extension of the Maleficium Extirpators, ridding the world of Black Magic. All we've been doing is following your example in getting rid of the Dark Lord, really. C'mon, wanna help us?"

Harry stared at the Ravenclaw. Or rather, he stared at the colours that floated in front of Michael Corner's face. For some reason, besides the mustard yellow and brown-green of his voice, there were also little flickers of gold and silver. It was curious, really, Harry felt they were familiar but couldn't remember where he'd seen them before…

"I have no interest in your sick activities, Corner," he spat.

"Really? I would have thought you'd want to lead us."

The amount of little sparkles of silver and gold suddenly increased. A window shattered somewhere to Harry's right.

Michael's eyes widened slightly as he glanced from the shards of glass on the floor to Harry's furious gaze. Apparently he was finally cottoning on to what was happening.

"Why don't you stop this, Michael, before I decide to take out my wand."

The Ravenclaw nodded quickly, and beckoned to his cronies to make their hasty retreat. Harry glared after them for a moment, his innards churning unpleasantly. A movement by the wall and Harry noticed Draco brushing off his robes. Suddenly the little sparks disappeared and Harry's stomach seemed hollow with the absence of his anger. He felt an awkward embarrassment take its place as Harry realized what had just happened. That was the first time he'd lost control of his magic in _years_.

Draco lifted his head, fury in his flashing grey eyes.

"I didn't need your help, _Potter_, "he spat before turning on his heels and striding away.

Harry stood frozen to the spot until long after the last traces of black and green robes had disappeared, his eyes burning with the afterimage of the colours he'd seen when he'd heard Draco speak clearly for the first time.

Familiar shades and shades of blue shining through veins of silvery white.

* * *

**A/N:** Who guessed that, hmm? (Can you hear the sarcasm dripping from my voice right now?) I'm sorry, I suck at subtlety. Anyways. Shall we see how long I can keep up the weekly updating? Also, I apologize for the similarities between this and Ameliorate, I get confused sometimes orz.

Also. If anyone cares. The song that I have in mind for Draco's Berceuse is this: 4leafcolour .tumblr post/20395910649/ludovico-einaudi-due-tramonti#notes


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** They aren't mine. Sigh.

**A/N: **I'm sorry. But you know, real life's a bitch, and I know it's the most often used excuse in the book, but I really do have finals coming up….so sorry. Here, have a longer chapter as compensation. :)

* * *

**Colour blind **

**Part 3**

It was a few moments before Harry could move. When he did, it was in a kind of stupor; he walked back to Gryffindor Tower, his feet moving automatically as his mind swirled.

Draco was the person he'd been eavesdropping on these past weeks. Of course, if Harry was being perfectly honest with himself he'd have to admit that he wasn't actually surprised. Even if he didn't know the colour of Draco's voice, he would still recognize the sound of it anywhere. But he hadn't _wanted _to think that Draco was the singer, so he'd subconsciously made excuses, like how the singer was _singing_, and in French, which would definitely be different than anything Harry'd ever heard from Draco. His denial was well and truly shattered now; he'd seen the proof with his own eyes.

Yet for some reason the knowledge didn't make him feel anything other than a queasy sort of dread.

Eventually he made it back to his dorm and collapsed into bed. He'd think about how fond he'd grown of the previously-disembodied musician and the alarming implications regarding his feelings for Draco in the morning.

* * *

Of course, come morning, Harry managed to think about a myriad of other things vastly more important than the crush-that-maybe-sort-of-was-more-now, such as brushing his teeth and then attempting to comb his hair and then getting dressed and then Ron's fascinating analysis of today's breakfast and then the owls coming in with the post, one of which was heading straight for him.

A letter was held out by an owl that looked like it meant business. Harry swore it was staring at him in disdain. Feeling strangely abashed, he quickly grabbed the letter and turned around to see the seal. Gringotts. Why was Gringotts contacting him?

For a frightening moment, Harry feared that it was because of the damage he, Ron, and Hermione had done when they'd broken in and then escaped on a dragon. He'd already apologized profusely to the goblins and made a hefty donation, but goblins weren't known for forgiveness. Feeling slightly apprehensive, Harry broke the seal and pulled out the thick parchment covered in a sharp, strict script. He scanned it quickly while Hermione stared at him in curiosity. As he got further down the article, and began to sift through the bank jargon to get an understanding of the basic situation, his eyes widened.

"It's Sirius," said Harry.

"What? What's serious? Is something wrong?" replied Hermione.

"No, no, it's _Sirius_," he said.

"Oh. Well what is it?" her voice was already laced with concern. Even after two and a half years, Sirius was still quite a delicate subject around Harry. Any of the dead were, really.

"You know how Dumbledore sort of told me about his will sixth year? Well they want me to come in for some legal something about me getting all of his stuff." He paused as something dawned on him. "Does that mean I have to actually go get all of his stuff?"

"Probably," said Hermione.

"What if I don't want it? Can I just mail the goblins and tell them to give it to charity?"

"I don't think it works like that. You'll have to go in and at least take a look at the vault."

"It's not that bad," said Ron, jumping into the conversation, "I mean, it probably won't _all _be dark pureblood stuff."

"I know," sighed Harry, ignoring Ron's sarcastic tone. "It's just, it's a hassle is all. Do you think Mcgonagall'll even let me go all the way to London?"

"You saved the world. I'll bet she'd let you go to Singapore, mate."

"Ron, do you even know where Singapore is?" Hermione wanted to know.

"Er… South?"

Hermione sighed and turned from the hopeless case that was Ron Weasley, picking up a roll. "I'm sure Mcgonagall would let you go during the weekend, Harry," she said whilst spreading butter.

Harry nodded glumly. He didn't particularly want to see the Black family vault, but he supposed he might as well get it over with.

* * *

So that weekend, with permission from Mcgonagall, he flooed from her office to the Leaky Cauldron. He wasn't sure what to expect when he stepped into Diagon Alley; surely people would stare even _more _now that he was the Boy Who Lived Twice and the Defeater of the Dark Lord. But he was pleasantly surprised to see that most people were too busy repairing their own shops or going about their now-free-of-fear lives to care much about the thin, spectacled young man that emerged from the brick doorway. It helped that he hadn't washed his hair in a couple days, and therefore it was lying a bit more limply than usual. Of course, people still stared when they did look at him long enough to recognize him, but a couple stares he could handle.

He made his way to Gringotts in an awkwardly hurried but halting gait. The sounds of the busy alley were hurting his eyes somewhat, but at the same time he kept pausing to look around. When he saw the place where Florean Fortescue's icecream parlour used to be, he felt an achy pain, but his spirits lifted when he saw that Ollivander's was once more open for business. A crowd was once more gathered around Wizard Weasley Wheezes, and Harry vowed to go visit George when he was done at the bank.

It was with relief that he stepped past the familiar placard warding off thieves and into the long hall. He walked up to a counter and coughed to get the goblin's attention.

"Yes," it said in its gravelly voice that looked like, well, gravel.

"Er," said Harry. "I was asked to come here to claim the Black family vault?"

"Name," drawled the goblin.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Harry Potter."

"Wand."

Harry handed over his wand. The goblin inspected it and then handed it back, before saying, "right this way," and then leading Harry into a sort of back room.

The room was adorned with more marble, and a chandelier hung over a mahogany desk, behind which sat another goblin. This goblin handed Harry a frightening amount of paperwork, and asked him to sign here, here, and there. When that was finished, Harry was asked whether he wanted to see the vault now. He said yes and was handed off to another goblin who led him into the rocky tunnels and onto one of Gringott's infamous carts. A sickening roller coaster ride later, Harry stepped out onto the platform before the vault.

Vault 711 was located even lower than Bellatrix's vault, but thankfully was quite dragonless. Harry waited as the goblin opened it, then took a deep breath and stepped in.

It was unnervingly reminiscent of the Lestrange vault, with mountains of gaudy goblets and crowns, a few dozen suits of armour, a number of strange jewelled skeletons, and a suitable amount of gold. It looked as if Sirius had never touched any of it, save for a small corner that he'd apparently commandeered. This section contained an old Hogwarts trunk, a box of what looked to be old letters, and his infamous motorcycle. Harry ran his hands over the dusty chrome and leather, his throat feeling somewhat constricted. This was _Sirius_'s motorbike. He'd loved it dearly and… Harry felt it somehow wrong that it should be down in the bowels of dank and drippy caves, collecting mildew and dust. Impulsively, he asked his guide if he could take the motorcycle. With permission, he used a charm to shrink the bike down until it could easily fit in one of his pockets. As Harry ascended back to ground level, he felt the small memento of his godfather like a soft warmth in his pocket.

It was with a guilty sort of apprehension that Harry shouldered through the crowd surrounding Weasley Wizard Wheezes. He wasn't sure how to act in front of George—what if he blamed Harry for his twin's death? Harry knew he never would, but he already felt some blame from himself and he didn't know if he could face any more. He needn't have worried, though, because when he finally found George, the Weasley brother greeted him with a grin and a clap on the shoulder.

"Heya, Harry. Been wondering when you'd drop in."

Harry offered a hesitant smile. "Hi, George. The shop seems to be doing really well."

"It sure is, although Ronniekins said something about Honeydukes beating us? Tell me it isn't so, Harry!"

"Of course not," said Harry, finally relaxing enough to laugh. "Honeydukes has got some sweet new stuff, but they still don't have all of the prank stuff you guys've got. If they decide to merge with Zonkos, then you have some competition."

"Oh, well that's great to hear," said George, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow.

"So how are you doing?" asked Harry, his voice a note more serious.

George looked away. "I'm doing alright," he said. Then, spotting someone over Harry's shoulder, "Hey, Angelina! Come over and say hi to Harry. Harry, this is Angelina Johnson. You remember her from Quidditch, right? Angelina, this is the saviour of the wizarding world." Harry and Angelina shook hands and exchanged brief greetings. "Oi!" called George suddenly, craning his neck to look around Angelina, "You shouldn't—" There was a low boom and a puff of sparkly purple smoke. "Sorry," said George to Harry, "I'll just take care of this real quick." He left, leaving Harry and Angelina to catch up.

"Wotcher, Harry," said Angelina, leaning on the shelf behind her.

"Hi, Angelina. How've you been?"

"Oh I'm doing good. Running the joke shop is good fun, even if I've sort of become George's favourite test subject."

"How is he?" Harry asked, lowering his voice and checking to make sure George was still preoccupied.

Angelina sighed and picked up one of the small spiky balls in a basket behind her (Harry didn't know what they were, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.)

"He's doing okay. Most of the time he's fun and joking like usual, it's just, occasionally I'll catch him sort of zoning out, and sometimes he'll like stop talking suddenly, as if he's still waiting for Fred to finish his sentences."

"Oh… I…" Harry had no idea what he should say to that. "I'm sorry. It's—well, I'm glad you've been helping him. It's good that he isn't alone."

"Yeah. I think the joke shop helps a lot, even if it does remind him of Fred. And he is getting better. Slowly, but I can still tell."

"That's good."

George returned, smiling at Angelina in a way that relieved Harry somewhat.

"I should probably be heading back to Hogwarts," he said.

"You sure?" asked George with a grin, "We've got lots of new products in the back that need to be tested. Don't you want to be the first one to try the new batch of Boiling Bubblegum?"

Harry laughed. "No, I'm alright, thanks. Although there is some stuff I'd like to buy to try out on Ron…"

A few minutes later, Harry walked back to the Leaky Cauldron, a bag of pranks swinging at his side. By the time he'd flooed back to McGonagall's office the sky was rapidly turning a darker shade of grey. He dropped his stuff off in Gryffindor Tower, ensconcing the motorcycle in a pair of socks before securing it in the bottom of his trunk and then rushing down to the Great Hall just in time for dinner.

Ron looked up from the swimming pool of gravy that was his plate. "Hey, Harry. How'd Gringotts go?"

"Oh it was fine," replied Harry, making a small crater in his mashed potatoes and then carefully filling it with gravy. "I got Sirius's motorbike."

"Ooh," exclaimed Ron, sloshing his gravy in his excitement. "Do you know how to fly it? Can we fly it? Aw man, that would be _wicked_!"

"Harry," said Hermione reprovingly, "I don't think that's such a great idea. Even normal motorcycles are quite dangerous. You guys could seriously injure yourselves if you tried to fly it."

"Don't worry," Harry assured Hermione, "I wasn't planning on flying it." He laughed at Ron's crestfallen expression. "I don't know, a motorcycle just isn't really my thing, you know?"

"Then what were you thinking to do with it?" asked Hermione.

"I'm not sure… I was thinking maybe I'll give it to Mr. Weasley."

"My dad?"

"Yeah. It's another muggle thing charmed to fly. I figure, since I destroyed his last one, I might as well give him this one."

"Oh Harry," said Hermione, "You don't have to do that. Sirius left it to you; don't you want to keep it?"

"Well I think Sirius would rather it went to someone who'd really love it. Besides, it would just sort of gather dust if I kept it."

"My dad'll definitely love it, mate. He probably won't show up to classes for a week, he'll be so obsessed with it."

"That's what I was hoping," said Harry with a grin.

"Hey, do you guys know what the History of Magic homework is?" asked Dean, leaning over the table towards them. From there the conversation dissolved into discussions of homework and classes, and after a while Harry excused himself with the excuse that he was tired. It was partially true—he'd had a long day and was feeling a bit of exhaustion. But it was also just habit. He rarely stayed for the whole dinner nowadays, usually excusing himself early to retreat to the eighth floor corridor.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, remembering that his singer wasn't just his singer anymore, it was Draco. Could he still enjoy the music and array of colours if he knew that they came from Draco—that every note that he treasured made his feelings for Draco just _that _much stronger? Even if Malfoy wasn't truly a Death Eater, he still believed in most of those principles, and he was still a bully. He'd tormented Harry and his friends for six years. It was fine for Harry to feel _attracted _to him. That was just hormones. He could never actually really _like _Draco, though; that would simply be disastrous.

With a sigh, he trudged up to Gryffindor tower and got ready for bed, still feeling conflicted.

The next day, he debated with himself until Lunch. After he'd eaten, he stood in front of the staircase again, warring internally. He was truly reluctant to give up the music, yet he _couldn't _like Draco. It was simply not on.

But just because he enjoyed the music didn't mean he had to love the source, right?

Having reasoned this out, Harry ran up to Gryffindor tower and grabbed his invisibility cloak before making his way to the eighth floor corridor. When he got there he slipped inside the slightly ajar door and silently slid into one of the pews a couple rows up. Now that he knew the identity of his singer there was no reason for him to stay outside.

Draco was already there, but he hadn't begun playing yet. Harry waited, his heart in his throat, and a moment later Draco pushed up the cover over the keys and splayed his fingers. He played a quick scale to warm up and then launched into a swift cadence, his right hand jumping over the keys, his left hand playing gentle chords that harmonized with the lyrical French of his voice. Harry couldn't close his eyes—the sight of pale, slender fingers dancing and white hair hanging over closed eyes, overlaid with tumbling colours—he felt a vague falling sensation, and it wasn't at all unpleasant.

There were only ten or so minutes until class started, but Harry completely lost track of time as he let the music wash over him both audibly and visibly. Draco let his third song come to an end and covered the keys with a strip of velvet before closing the cover, then got up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out. Harry slowly emerged into reality, and realized with a jolt that he only had three minutes to get to class. He ran from the room, shrinking his invisibility cloak and stuffing it into his bag as he went. Sanguini wasn't the type to give him detention if he were late, but he really didn't want to have to face the vaguely amused, slightly contemptuous look that he would surely be shot.

He slid into his seat just as Sanguini swept into the room and heaved a sigh of relief.

"Today," he drawled, "we'll be learning about the _abscindo_ curse. This is the only known curse that can harm which creature?" He opened his mouth to answer his own question, but Hermione beat him to it.

"Manticores, sir. Although it can also be used against chimaeras, it isn't as effective."

"Actually," he said in a monotone, "that is incorrect. I wasn't talking about manticores, rather, I was talking about Gildoroy Lockhart's new boyfriend—the most fearsome beast of all."

Hermione blinked. Sanguini's students were, for the most part, used to his fluent use of sarcasm, but occasionally he would say something so outlandish that even Hermione would be temporarily thrown.

"Now," he continued, as if he hadn't just thrown in a complete non sequitur. "Can anyone tell me the difference between Manticores and Chimeras?"

His eyebrow raised an infinitesimal amount as he eyed Hermione's straining hand.

"It's so nice to see that you actually know the answer, for once, Hermione. Yes?" Sanguini was one of the only teachers who called his students by their given names, and allowed students to call him by his. Well, no one really knew if Sanguini was his first or last name, but that was what he went by.

"Manticores and Chimaeras are both classified by the ministry as XXXXX level creatures and are both hybrid creatures, but Manticores are sentient."

"A positively abysmal explanation," said Sanguini. Hermione blushed at the praise. "Chimaeras are comprised of a lion's head, a goat's body, and a dragon's tail. They're quite violent and bloodthirsty, and will attack without provocation and without warning. Manticores are a combination of a lion's body, a scorpion's tail, and a human head with four rows of teeth." He projected a rather terrifying picture onto the screen at the front of the room. "They're also quite violent and bloodthirsty—another name for them is man-eater—but they have a touch more patience than chimaeras. Manticores like to play with their prey; they enjoy terrifying their victims into madness before devouring them. This gives you a window of opportunity and is the reason why the _abscindo _curse is more effective on Manticores than on Chimaeras.

"So what does _abscindo _actually do?" He continued before Hermione could interrupt. "It literally tears the manticore into its separate parts: the head of man, body of lion, and tail of scorpion. It is not pretty, and is quite a complicated curse to perform correctly. If the manticore isn't split along the boundaries between species, it will be able to quickly regenerate. We will dedicate the next week to the _abscindo _curse. Let me demonstrate it first. The wand movement is quite complicated and you will have to study it well before attempting it."

He waved his wand in a quick series of loops and jabs and said, "_abscindo._"

Nothing much happened, as there was no Manticore present to be torn apart, but Harry was intrigued. He'd seen more coloured sparks, although there was quite a higher concentration of silver than he'd seen previously.

"If you wish to experience the fascinating feeling of being eaten alive, than there's really no need for you to come to class for the next week as we'll be practicing it until Friday. On Monday, you'll have the opportunity to satiate your curiosity, as I'll be bringing an old friend of mine to class."

Hermione looked horrified. Harry wasn't sure what to feel about having to face a manticore in a week. Well he knew what he _should _be feeling—abject terror. But in reality he found it quite fascinating. Defence was his favourite subject, after all, and who knew? After his life so far, Harry wouldn't be all that surprised if knowing how to defeat a manticore would become a necessity sometime in his future.

He listened with rapt attention to the rest of the lecture and was so involved that he didn't even glance at Draco once.

* * *

Monday dawned on an exhausted Harry, who was presently attempting to supress a yawn, rather futilely, and feeling slightly harassed but on the whole still quite excited for the lesson. Hermione had kept them up until two a.m., reviewing and practicing the _abscindo _curse.

"I can't believe him," she'd kept huffing, even as she corrected Ron or Harry's wand hand. "Teaching eighteen year olds _abscindo_. I mean, honestly, when is anyone ever going to need to know that? Not to mention the fact that it's a primarily _dark _curse. And on top of that, bringing a live manticore into a _classroom_? How has the ministry even sanctioned that? It's blasphemy, I tell you. Preposterous."

"Yeah, yeah, 'Mione. It's totally incum—incom—incongrulious."

"Incongruous, Ron," corrected Hermione as she moved his fingers around and pushed his elbow down.

Harry turned to look at Ron, simply letting Hermione bend his wrist and tilt his shoulder. "How do you even know that word?"

Ron shrugged. "Hermione's been trying to 'broaden my vocabulary.'"

Harry'd laughed. Hermione'd rolled her eyes and said, "Stop trying to change the subject. We have to know this stuff, you guys!" and then proceeded to drill the spell into their heads for the next four hours.

Finally, Sanguini slipped through his office door, an ominously large cage covered by a curtain rolling along behind him.

"Now," he said monotonously, "does everyone know the curse?" There was a small cloud of brown in front of Harry's eyes that accompanied the sparse murmurs and nods in acquiescence. "I'm positively tickled pink that you all seem so confident. I'm sure the class will go off without a hitch." His sarcasm, when applied to a positive statement, was really quite frightening as it meant that he honestly _didn't _expect the class to "go off without a hitch."

"Alright. Now please gather into the best semblance of a line you can manage." Previously, the students had all been milling about in the centre of the room, as the desks and chairs had all disappeared, but at his instruction they all shuffled into a line. There was quite a bit of pushing and tripping as no one wanted to go first. "Wonderful," intoned Sanguini. "Now, the manticore can only take one correctly cast _abscindo_, for obvious reasons." He dropped the sarcasm when he was actually teaching. "But I don't expect any of you to pull it off on your first go. Or even your fiftieth. So we'll continue going around, each of you casting the curse once then returning to the back of the line, until class is over. If anyone does manage to destroy my little pet—"he sounded highly dubious. Well, as much as his flat voice could express emotion, which wasn't much"—then that student will be exempt from class for the next week.

"Okay. On the count of three, I will lift the curtain and you will cast the first curse, alright Neville?"

Neville, who had the bad luck to go first, nodded somewhat shakily. Harry was strongly reminded of third year. The whole classroom situation was quite reminiscent of the boggart. He almost expected to hear a snarky, "this _class _is ridiculous." But of course, Draco stayed silently inconspicuous in the back of the room.

"Don't worry; my magic will be keeping him constrained the whole time. Alright. One…two…three."

With a tiny flick of Sanguini's wand, the curtain flew off to reveal a most hideously frightening creature. It was almost as bad as a dementor, thought Harry. The lion body was lean, the fur matted and grossly patchy; the scorpion tail curved up, the stinger hanging over the most grotesque face Harry'd ever seen. Manticores supposedly had human faces, but this one's face was anything but, in Harry's opinion. It was as if someone had taken the face of a man and twisted it so that the eyes were bugging out and had a spark of wicked intelligence, and the mouth definitely gave a dementor's some competition. It spread literally from ear to ear, and was filled with four rows of gleaming yellow teeth. As the class watched, frozen, it grinned a horrible, terrifyingly deliberate grin. The look in its eye clearly showed that it knew where it was, and what was happening, and that it thought them all nothing more than pathetic, but tasty, food.

"Hello, my dear," it said to Neville, its voice low and scratchily sweet. In Harry's eyes, it looked like a cold blue sea stained with drops of red.

Neville looked horrified, but he wasn't the same stuttering little boy he'd been third year. "_Abscindo_," he said firmly. Harry saw a couple sparks, mostly gold, and the manticore's grin faltered slightly.

Neville moved to the back of the line, and the next person gave it a try. As they waited for their turn, Ron scratched absently at his stomach and gazed at the wall. Harry, for once, followed Hermione's example and diligently watched his classmates' failed attempts. Each person spouted a different amount of gold or silver sparks, and Harry noticed that those who produced more sparks also garnered a greater reaction from the manticore. The best so far was when Seamus's wand spewed a small cascade of silver and the manticore veritably frowned.

Soon enough, it was Harry's turn. He was feeling a bit nervous, but also quite excited. He'd faced much worse; surely he could deal with this grotesque creature?

"Oh my," said the manticore as Harry stepped up to it, "If it isn't the most acclaimed murderer in all of Britain? _Harry Potter_."

Harry shivered but remained firm. The manticore was toying with him.

"_Abscindo!"_ he said.

The manticore's tail shuddered where it merged into the lion's hide. Its eyes twitched to the side as if checking to make sure it's tail was still there, before shifting back to Harry. It frowned, but then its mouth morphed into another grin that was all the more terrifying for the cold anger that tempered it.

"Well," it said, its voice quiet, "that was quite the curse. Would you care to try again, my dear killer? Perhaps you will succeed this time. Perhaps I will follow in my brothers' footsteps, perhaps you will be able to destroy me just as you slayed the basilisk, the werewolf, the metamorphmagus. Your precious owl, or your faithful elf, or even your loyal animagus grim. Or perhaps I will go like one of your human friends, your mother and father who died because of you. The little camera boy, the twin, the rightful champion of the triwizard tournament…"

Harry took a step back as the manticore painted his hands red. He shouldn't listen to it—he _knew _that it was trying to traumatize him, to weaken him. Harry'd dealt with much more (_killed_ much more, his subconscious whispered) this was nothing. He would not back down, not here.

"_ABSCINDO!"_ he shouted, again, although his turn was technically over.

The manticore's eyes narrowed slightly before widening even more, and then with a horrible, wet, ripping sound, its head and tail both fell, its body collapsing a beat later.

"Bravo," said Sanguini, who didn't look at all surprised or shaken. With a wave of his wand, the curtain flew back over to cover the bleeding body. "Congratulations, Harry, I _do _hope you'll use your week free wisely. Perhaps marinating some cheese or jamming some guavas? I've always been partial to guava jam myself. As for the rest of you, the rest of the week will be used as review for the _abscindo _curse. Class dismissed."

* * *

Harry slipped into the music room at the start of dinner. Draco wouldn't arrive for another fifteen minutes, at least, but Harry hadn't felt like eating. He just wanted to let Draco's music wash over him and through him, clearing out the gross feeling of red that the manticore had left at the corners of his vision. Listening to the piano and lilting French, he could let his mind relax and simply appreciate. He was exhausted; no matter how much he told himself to forget it, his mind kept dwelling on the DADA class. On top of his lack of sleep, his constantly churning thoughts had rendered him thoroughly fatigued. After Draco finished, he would go straight to bed, he told himself over and over as he waited for his musician to arrive.

Finally, Draco stepped through the door, set his book bag down at the foot of the piano bench, and stretched, sighing. Harry wondered if he was also thinking about the manticore—Draco'd only gotten one turn, and the curse had only just slipped out of his mouth before he was shuffling to the back of the line. At the time, Harry'd felt slightly bitter—was Draco still nothing more than a coward?—but after his own turn, he could understand why Draco wouldn't want to give it any time to speak. He had just as much to be ashamed of as Harry did, if not more.

He started slowly, but soon got into the rhythm of the classical sonata, and Harry felt his body relaxing as he simply listened. Apparently Draco didn't feel much like singing today, as he was just playing complicated piano pieces. Harry didn't know much of classical music, but he'd done some reading/listening (the library had records) in the past few weeks and thought a lot of it sounded Beethoven-ish. It seemed as if Draco was channelling his frustrations through the piano, and it worked. As the period wore on, he even played a couple slower pieces in a major key.

It was quite soothing, really; Harry rested his head on his arms, settling slouched on the desk in front of him, and closed his eyes. It had been an exhausting day on top of a tiring night and it felt wonderful to let the tension leave his body. Soon enough, he was drifting in some space in between wakefulness and sleep, where the only thing that existed was the music.

Draco was just beginning a Mozart Sonata when Harry's elbow slipped off the desk and he banged his head on the hard wood, just barely holding in the "OW!" that came instinctively, but too late to prevent the thud. Harry rubbed his forehead, cursing internally, and it was a moment until he realized that the room had fallen silent. It was with a queasy apprehension that he slowly looked up. He was still securely under the invisibility cloak, surely Draco would just write off the sound as his imagination?

But Draco was staring in his general direction, suspicion deep in his eyes. "Who's there?" He said, his arms dropping from the piano. Harry held his breath. "I know someone's there. Answer me." He slowly took his wand from his bag and waved it behind him. The door swung shut, the lock clicking into place. Slowly, he began walking towards where Harry sat, still concealed by his cloak. Harry clutched at the fabric, whole body tense so as not to make a sound. Draco wouldn't find him so long as he had his father's cloak. He couldn't. But Harry couldn't help but worry his bottom lip as Draco advanced towards him, somehow seeming to stare right at him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except for my trusty laptop.

**A/N: **someone asked me if the whole sounds=colours thing is actually a thing. It is, it's called synesthesia. To learn more about it you can look it up on Wikipedia or read the wonderful book, A Mango Shaped Space.

* * *

**Colour blind**

**Part 4**

Harry was panicking. Should he try to run away? At this rate, Malfoy was going to walk right into him. Slowly, he moved to get up. The cloak rustled an infinitesimal amount, but somehow Draco must have heard it, for his eyes immediately snapped to Harry's seat and his strides became more deliberate. Harry froze once more, completely at a loss as to what to do. Should he hope that Draco would somehow step around him? No, that was quite impossible. Should he try again to move away? But Draco's ears were evidently more formidable than his clumsiness could handle. Draco was almost upon him by now, one more step and he'd be tripping over the cloak. _Oh bugger it all to hell,_ thought Harry before pulling off the cloak.

Stopping in his tracks, Draco blinked at him, too surprised to make a scathing remark just yet. But Harry could see it in the narrowing of his eyes and the twitching of his wand hand that if he didn't speak quickly, Draco wouldn't give him a chance.

"Wait!" he said against Draco's rising wand. 'Er… Sorry I was eavesdropping?" He winced as soon as he said it. Surely even _he _could do better than that? He wanted to bang his head on the desk in front of him but thought that would probably be detrimental to getting Draco to listen to him.

"What the hell, Potter," snapped Draco. "How did you even get in here?"

"Er…" said Harry eloquently, "Through the door?" He mentally cursed how cheeky that sounded. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"Have you been following me again?"

"What? No! No, I was just wandering around and then a staircase moved and then I was in this wing and then I heard you playing and—and I just wanted to listen?"

Draco glared at him, suspicion heavy in his eyes. He obviously didn't buy what Harry was saying, even if it was the truth.

"How long have you been listening?"

"You mean today or—?" The temptation to hit himself was growing with everything that came out of his mouth. Of _course _Draco meant today! Now he'd just gone and told him that this wasn't a one-time thing.

"You've been— alright then, how long have you been coming here?"

Harry tried to formulate a lie that would minimize his damage, but before he could come up with anything good his mouth betrayed him. "A couple weeks."

Draco's eyes widened before returning to their narrowed state. "You've been _spying _on me for a _couple weeks_?"

"No! Like I said, I just—you play and sing really well. I just wanted to listen's all."

"What for? Have you been trying to find blackmail material? Because I'm sorry to inform you, but I haven't _done _anything."

"You're not listening to me!" Harry was quickly losing his temper. Why must Draco be so incredibly suspicious?

"Yes, because I can trust everything you say."

"But you _can_! I'm telling the truth! I honestly have just been listening, nothing more."

"Alright, fine. You've just been listening." He didn't sound very convinced. "Well in that case, don't."

"But—but that's why you come here, right? To play music? So why can't I come to listen? I'm not bothering you."

"Your very presence is revolting enough."

"Now you're just being purposefully annoying! I seriously only come here to listen!" Harry felt like they were talking in circles. What was his problem, anyway? What was so bad about Harry listening in?

"Well don't bother coming back," Draco spat, effectively ending the conversation before spinning on his heel and striding out, pausing only briefly to pick up his bag on his way.

* * *

The next day Harry completely ignored his warning and returned to the music room at every free period he had. Draco never showed. After a week of this, Harry was growing frustrated and dismayed. He wasn't sure why Draco had made a habit of going there to make music, but he suspected it was the slytherin's method of escape. Although the physical attacks were rare, most of the student body was still openly hostile to the slytherins and to Draco in particular. It was quite understandable that he'd want to have a place to go without all of that, a sanctuary of sorts. After all, that's what it had become for Harry. It pained him to think that he'd caused the loss of this escape for Draco. It pained him, and the auditorium was quickly becoming less of a refuge for Harry and more of a place of frustration. Yet he continued to go back, unable to crush the hope that Draco would give up this stupid stubborn avoidance and return.

It was Saturday, Hogsmeade Saturday, and Harry had politely declined Ginny's invitation to go in favour of staking out the music room. Draco hadn't gone to any Hogsmeade weekends so far this year and Harry hoped he might show up here. Hours passed, however, and there was no sign of the Slytherin. Harry sighed. His friends would be coming back soon and he'd be obligated to sit with them in the common room and socialize, at least for a while. He didn't usually mind, except Hermione and Ron were rather transparent in their affection for each other, and it made something squirm in Harry's stomach to watch them bicker, their swats more tender touches than anything else. On top of that, Ginny had recently taken it upon herself to badger Harry incessantly about the object of _his _affections. He supposed she must have broken up with her latest boyfriend (was it Jonathon the Hufflepuff? Or was that last month?) and now had nothing better to do with her life. If she saw him now, her piercing gaze would definitely be able to pick up on the disappointment he was feeling. He really didn't feel up to facing her knowing smirk.

Harry got up from his customary seat in the raised pews and made to leave. He paused beside the piano and turned to it. After a moment of hesitation, he raised the lid and pulled back the strip of velvet. Still standing, he let his hands drop to splay his fingers on the keys. He pressed his index finger down, clumsily playing a couple notes. The colours that ran across his eyes were disjointed and dull. He pushed the velvet back and slammed the lid shut.

Fine. If Draco wanted to abandon his sanctuary then it was none of Harry's business. But he wasn't about to sit around and accept it when Draco had taken away _his _only form of relaxation nowadays too.

The next day, Harry spent the entire potions class staring at the back of Draco's head. It gave him gratification that he squirmed every so often, even if he never looked back. At the end of the lesson, he waited just outside the door.

Only after everyone else had come out did Draco hesitantly edge his way beyond the door. He looked apprehensive, and more than just a bit irritated. When his eyes lighted on Harry, they narrowed in anger. He raised his chin and began striding past him, but Harry put out his arm to block his way.

"Can I have a word, Malfoy?" he said in overly polite tones.

"No." was Draco's curt reply. Harry frowned.

"You're being difficult," he said.

"And you're being a prat, what else is new?"

"_Please, _Malfoy. I don't know why you're so upset that I was there. I—it was just—I was just listening!"

Draco's expression was shuttered. "I have class, Potter."

"Come _on_! Why'd you stop playing? I know you need it. I—"

"I do not _need _anything," hissed Draco. "And I am sure that what I do with my time is absolutely none of your business. Now, if you are quite done with your insufferable prattling on, I must be going."

With that he slapped Harry's arm aside and left, his robe billowing in a manner reminiscent of Snape.

Harry slouched against the wall and pulled his hand down his face. Every time he opened his mouth he just made things worse; pushed Draco even further away. It seemed as if he was absolutely rubbish at reasoning with him. Well, fine then, so be it. But he wasn't going to give up. If words wouldn't get through to Draco, maybe Harry's own stubbornness would eventually wear him down.

A couple days passed in which Harry relentlessly stared at Draco every time they were in the same room. He never spoke to him again, but he made a point of running into him often and trying to communicate with his eyes. He wasn't sure if Malfoy was getting the message, but it was obvious that he was aware of what Harry was doing. Everyone was, really.

"Harry," said Ginny that Friday at dinner. (Since Malfoy no longer went to the music room and took his meals in the Great Hall, Harry did as well despite the headaches.)

"Hmm?" he replied, his gaze still locked firmly on Draco's blond head across the hall.

"Why don't you just go talk to him; declare your undying love already. You're driving us all batty."

He turned to her at that. "What are you talking about?"

She stared at him. "Harry. You have the subtlety of a drunken mountain troll. Honestly, the whole school knows by now. I thought it would take me some work to wrangle your crush out of you, and I have to say I'm disappointed at how easy you've made it."

He scowled. "I do not have a 'crush.'"

She just raised her eyebrow. He knew that he was lying quite blatantly, but he really didn't feel like thinking about his stupid _feelings _right now, seeing as he had much more important things to worry about. Such as wearing down Draco.

"Harry, mate," said Ron from across the table, "You've been staring at nothing but _him _for the past week. I think it's been well established that you've moved past the crush phase."

"I have done no such thing. I _hate _him. He's being an annoying prat and I'm _staring _at him to bug him."

"Ri-i-ight. You keep telling yourself that." Ron turned back to his chicken.

"Harry, do you want some help? Want me to talk to him?" Ginny obviously wasn't going to back down so easily.

Harry sighed. "No, Gin. I'm seriously doing this to annoy him. It's fine, really. Please don't talk to him about it or anything."

"Alright," she said, looking highly sceptical, "whatever you say."

He could tell she wasn't convinced. She turned to talk to Dean a moment later, but Harry knew that she'd have her eye on him for a while. Well whatever, she could do whatever she wanted. He sighed and turned back to Malfoy, glaring with renewed fervour, hoping he would give up soon so Harry would stop feeling so on edge.

In the meantime, however, he had a bit of time on his hands, seeing as how there was no use in his continual visitation of the eighth floor corridor and he didn't have to go to defence for another couple days. He decided to take care of some business that had been put on hold momentarily.

Arthur Weasley's voice looked like a warm cloud of light brown interspersed with blocks of goodhearted, yet strict maroon. Harry smiled when he saw it.

"Hi, Harry!" he said from behind his desk. "How are you?"

Harry had checked with Hermione (who knew everything about everybody) to see when Mr Weasley had free periods. He'd presently just finished a class, and Harry found him shuffling papers. He sounded happy to see Harry, and happy in general, really. It was obvious that he loved talking about muggles all day. But there were lines on his face, some quite new. The darkness below his eyes made Harry think about Fred, and how the rest of the family must be holding up. George had seemed alright when Harry'd visited, but Harry hadn't spoken to Molly since they said goodbye on the train in September. He thought perhaps he should owl her.

"I'm fine, thanks. How are you? How's teaching?" Harry knew that Arthur loved it, but it felt like the safest subject to ask about.

"Oh, it's simply wonderful! The students are all incredibly bright. Did you know that a third of them actually have muggles in their families? I learn about as much as I teach!"

"That's great," said Harry.

"There's a Hufflepuff girl whose parents develop cosmetics. Did you know that muggles actually have a whole business of potions making? Although they don't call it that. They use things called chemi-calls and mix them up to make all sorts of things. Oh—but I'm rambling. Sorry, Harry; you're visiting me for a reason I take it?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Actually, the other day I got a letter from Gringotts about Sirius's vault."

"Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine. I just had to go and sign some papers, which was a hassle. But while I was there, I looked in his vault and found this." He pulled the motorbike out of his pocket, set it on the ground, and returned it back to normal size with a flick of his wand.

Arthur stared at it. "That's Sirius's motorcycle! I thought the Ministry had it."

After the incident with the polyjuiced Harry's, Arthur had taken the bike. But once the war was over, the Ministry took hold of it, since it wasn't actually his.

"I guess they returned it to Gringotts," said Harry. "I know you didn't get a chance to finish fixing it. Since it's technically mine now, and I don't have any use for it, I thought I'd give it to you."

"Oh, Harry," breathed Mr Weasley. "You don't need to do that. It's yours; Sirius left it for you."

"Yeah but I don't really have any use for it and I know that you love this kind of thing."

"But Harry—"

"I want you to have it," said Harry firmly. "I—you've been like a father to me, and I'm really grateful for all of that." He ran his hand through his hair awkwardly. "Just think of it as repayment for the Ford Angela." He set it against Mr Weasley's wall, so he would be forced to take it.

"Well then," said Arthur, smiling. "Thank you." He turned his eyes to the motorbike, and they were suddenly glinting with excitement. "Ooh I _have _been wanting to fix it up. Do you think it'll fly again?"

Harry grinned. "I'm sure it will, Mr Weasley."

"Again, thank you," he said, and then got up from his desk.

Harry thought he was going to inspect the motorcycle, so was quite startled when he was suddenly enveloped in a tight hug. He felt himself blushing—he had never gotten quite comfortable with physical displays of affection. He never knew where to put his hands. Tentatively, he patted Mr Weasley on the back, feeling horribly awkward. "Er… you're welcome," he said into the shoulder his nose was buried in.

Thankfully, Arthur pulled back, although he kept his hands on Harry's shoulders. "What did I ever do to deserve such a wonderful son?" He was grinning to show he was joking, but his voice was soft enough that Harry knew he wasn't, not really. Harry felt like there was something in his chest, or in his throat. He had no idea what he was supposed to say.

"Oh my," said Mr Weasley, looking at the watch on his wrist (Harry was bemused to see that he used a very muggle watch, instead of just casting a tempus), "is that the time? Harry, don't you have class?"

"Yes, yeah, I've got transfiguration," said Harry in relief. "I should probably be going then…"

"Yes, alright, it was quite good to see you. And Harry," Arthur added as he turned to go, "really, thank you."

Harry nodded. "See you later."

As he trudged up the stairs his thoughts turned, as they were wont to do, back to Draco. He grinned as he thought about other ways in which he could torture him. Hopefully he would give up soon.

* * *

Draco Malfoy finally cracked on the first Monday of October. He intercepted Harry after potions and dragged him by his cloak to a dark alcove. Harry was grinning as he was manhandled away and even waved rather cheekily to Hermione, who was looking slightly worried.

Draco did not look happy, and his scowl intensified when he saw Harry's glee. Harry tried to look abashed, but probably wasn't entirely successful if Draco's glare was anything to go by.

"Yes?" said Harry. He cursed how flippant that sounded and vowed not to open his mouth unless specifically directed to do so.

"Well spit it out then, Potter," he hissed. "What do you want?"

"Er…" said Harry, taken aback by the anger in Draco's eyes. Anger and something else… humiliation?

"What do you want me to do?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Was it not enough for you to put my father in Azkaban? Is it not enough that the Malfoy name is in tatters, our money gone in reparations to your precious ministry? I already thanked you once; do you want me to get down on my knees? I may be a pariah but I will have you know that I still have some shred of dignity. I will not allow you to rip that from me too."

Harry blinked. "Er, what's a pariah?"

Something flashed in Draco's stormy eyes. Harry may have been colour blind, but that didn't really matter when it came to Malfoy, seeing as he was pretty much colourless to begin with—all pale white and grey. It was another reason why Harry liked him.

He made a sound in his throat like a growl and suddenly turned away from Harry.

"You—you're so—I _hate _you."

Harry couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at his lips, although he tried to. But seeing Malfoy here, like this—all nervous energy and anger, the air crackling with silver and gold sparks overlaid with blue and white—was…exhilarating. He hadn't seen that spark in Draco's eyes since the beginning of sixth year.

"Well the feeling isn't mutual," said Harry, feeling stupidly brave all of a sudden.

That tripped Draco. "W-what?"

"I don't hate you," clarified Harry. "Not anymore at least." He rushed on; wanting to take advantage of Draco's shocked silence. "Look, I'm sorry I was eavesdropping, but I'm not sorry I was listening."

"That doesn't even make any—"

"I was telling the truth, what I said before. I really did just stumble upon the music room. But your music, it's—it's—it's really pretty."

"Your vocabulary is really quite impressive, Potter."

Harry ignored him. "I've felt… restless ever since the last battle, but listening to you play, it's soothing. And I know it relaxes you too, don't deny it. I've seen your face when you sing." Harry flushed when he realized how creepy that sounded, but continued, not to back down now. "I really don't care if you want to give it up, but you're denying me much needed relaxation too which I won't stand for."

"Oh of course," sneered Draco, "I should have known that it was all about you in the end. The precious Chosen One needs the pretty music and therefore I should just give up and comply, is that it?"

"Yes." Harry nodded. "Yep, that sounds about right."

Draco faltered. "Well—well I won't. I refuse. You can't make me."

"Now you're just being childish," said Harry. He had a sudden crazy impulse to smooth the pout from Draco's lips.

"I am not being _childish_. You are simply being unreasonable. Unreasonable and selfish."

"Come on, it benefits you too. I won't bother you or anything; I just want to sit and listen." _And watch you play,_ he added mentally.

"You can't just barge in and demand me to let you sit there! That was _my _room, _my _piano! It was private!"

"I can stay under my invisibility cloak if you like. Then it won't seem like I'm there."

Draco gaped at him for a moment. "I can't believe this," he finally said, his voice low. "You are so _presumptuous_."

"You want to play the piano and sing and I want to listen. I really don't see what the problem is."

"You don't see—? The problem is that I don't _want _you there! Do you honestly think I could play happily with your hideous mug in the room?"

"I told you, I could stay under my invisibility cloak. That way you—"

"That's not the—"He made a sound of frustration and ran his hand through his impeccable white hair. Harry was quite distracted by the way it now stood up in the back, and almost missed Draco's next words. "You're such an insufferable twat. You know what? This conversation is completely pointless. I just wanted to tell you to stop staring at me. Just leave me alone."

"No, I don't think I will."

Draco had begun to stride away, but he stopped and turned back at that. "What?"

"I won't leave you alone. I'll stop staring at you, if you like. And you'll continue singing. It's as simple as that."

He stared at Harry incredulously for a moment. Then he shook his head, as if in disbelief, and turned to go. Harry opened his mouth to argue some more, but before he could, Draco tossed a small, "whatever," over his shoulder. Harry grinned.

Draco did indeed have Arithmancy, but Harry didn't have any more classes until after lunch. He thought about going to the library to study, but quickly passed over that idea in favour of going outside.

The sun was shining, but there was a cool breeze that made the warmth pleasant. As he walked aimlessly through the grounds, he began to hear shouted commands the colour of fire. He happily made his way over to the Quidditch pitch, for once feeling something other than hurt longing for the sport. He was simply in too good a mood to mope over the fact that he could no longer play. Ginny hadn't let his team fall to ruin, for which he was grateful. Although he hadn't attended any practices all year, he knew that they'd been training extra hard in order to be able to defeat Ravenclaw in the match on Saturday. Apparently the Ravenclaw team had even trained over the summer together, and had beaten Hufflepuff and Slytherin already. It was going to be a tough match, and Ginny was being merciless when it came to practice.

Harry tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as he climbed up to the stands, although it was pretty difficult to conceal oneself when one was the only one on the bleachers. He felt a sort of wistful pride as he watched the Gryffindor team practice. They really were getting good under Ginny's command. But it was weird. A lot of the team was made up of younger students, students Harry didn't recognize and had never played alongside. _His _team had mostly graduated already. This really was _Ginny's _team; it was a whole new generation playing out there. It made Harry feel old.

When the practice ended, Harry clambered down the stands as the team dispersed to the changing room. Ginny, having seen Harry sitting and watching, waited for him.

"You guys are really looking good," said Harry.

"Thanks," she grinned. "I've been trying to beat them into shape. We will _not _lose to a bunch of bookworms."

Harry laughed. "No kidding. Hey, fancy a seeker's game?"

Ginny was still playing seeker; even though she preferred chaser, they still hadn't found a better replacement for Harry. "Seriously? Hey, I've just worked my arse off for the past two hours."

"I guess you're right," Harry sighed, "it would be over in thirty seconds."

"Oy, I can still beat you, even the sweaty mess that I am. Go on, fetch a broom."

Harry laughed as he ran to the broom cupboard. He chose an older model; after all, he wanted the game to last at least a couple minutes.

"You got a snitch?" he asked as he mounted the broom.

"Yup, right here." Ginny mounted hers as well, before opening her hand and throwing the little golden ball into the air.

They waited ten seconds, staring at each other competitively, before simultaneously kicking off.

Harry couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up through his chest and escaped into the air, only to be snatched away by the wind as he flew higher and higher. Oh, how he'd missed this. It was utterly _brilliant_, the feeling of freedom, of the wind pulling at his hair and grabbing at his clothes, him darting through the air despite it. He quickly fell into the familiar feints and loops, savouring the stomach-in-throat feeling as he went into a steep dive.

The last time he'd flown a broom had been in the Room of Requirement, with Draco clutching desperately to his waist. The last time he'd flown a broom like this, for sport, was too long ago to remember. And yet his muscles remembered perfectly. So much about him was different—his newfound freedom without Voldemort hanging over his head, his confusing feelings towards Draco, and most of all his changed vision—that sometimes he didn't know who he was anymore. The Harry from a couple years ago, the Harry whose life was cut and dry (two best friends, one despised school rival, one most hated professor, one mortal enemy) seemed like a different person altogether, a person from another lifetime. Yet the Harry that he was now felt like a person he'd just met for the first time; someone he still knew nothing about. Yes, so much about him was different, and so much was muddled and unclear, but this, _this, _was completely unchanged and simple.

In the midst of a Wronski feint, Harry glimpsed a flash of whitish-grey (gold to his eyes) out of the corner of his eye. He quickly pulled up and began the chase. Ginny had seen it too, and first, and was so far much closer. Harry leaned down and adjusted his grip slightly, slicing through the air as efficiently as possible. It would have been a piece of cake on his old firebolt, but he was unused to this slower, older broom, and it was clear that Ginny would get there first.

"Woah, Gin, look out!" cried Harry.

"Wha-?" she looked around her frantically, and in her hesitation Harry whipped by. A second later, the snitch was in his hand and he was whooping victoriously.

"Oh you cheating prat!" Ginny screamed at him before flying straight into him and pulling both of them to the ground.

Harry just laughed as she proceeded to beat her fists against him, shouting verbal abuse.

Later on, they walked back to the castle together, both feeling pleasantly worn out.

"So," said Ginny innocently, "kissed him, have you?"

Harry coughed and spluttered. "Wha—no!"

Ginny hummed. "Well then what else would put you in such a good mood? It's got to have _something _to do with ol' ferret face."

"Er, it doesn't really."

"Really."

Harry clapped his hands behind his back and walked ahead of her. "Yup."

"Harry James Potter, you are the worst liar I have ever encountered. And seeing as Ron's my brother, that's really saying something."

"Well… I _may _have just had a nice long conversation with him. Maybe."

"Conversation?"

"Okay so maybe it was a bit more of an argument. But still. Words were exchanged."

"Merlin, Harry, you guys just talked a bit? You look like he bloody proposed to you! Since when did you turn into a thirteen-year-old girl?"

"Oh, shut up." Said Harry, punching her in the arm. "You're supposed to be happy for me. We talked and he didn't try to punch me once. Also he sort of maybe agreed to spend more time with me. Kind of."

She laughed. "Okay okay, congratulations. Wow, really? How'd you manage that?"

Harry explained the whole situation. By the end of it, he was grinning again and they'd reached the entrance hall.

"Hmm... it all sounds quite complicated," was her comment. "But I suppose if it makes you happy, that's all that matters, eh?"

"Yeah," said Harry, glad to have her support.

"Alright. Well I'm going to go take a shower before lunch. Meet you in there?"

"Sure."

Harry watched Ginny disappear up the stairs before turning to the Great Hall. He went in and sat down besides Hermione and Ron who were presently arguing the merit of introducing brunch to the Hogwarts meal schedule. Piling food onto his plate, he let his gaze drift over to the Slytherin table, as was his habit. He met Draco's startled gaze for a moment before the Slytherin ducked his head down and scowled. Harry grinned. He couldn't wait for their next shared free period.

* * *

**A/N: **MERLIN'S SOGGY PANTS THIS CHAPTER WAS A BLOODY WENCH. *breathes heavily* Okay. Got that out of my system. I've been having issues with writing recently. I think my muse eloped with my concentration. Gawd. They'd better return soon or THERE WILL BE BLOOD TO PAY.

Comments are always loved.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter or Draco Malfoy or a functional nose. Life is so difficult.

**A/N: **I don't always have a specific song in mind for what Draco's playing, but sometimes I do. So I decided to start sharing that with you guys.

The first piece Draco's playing here is Lizst's La Campanella (Harry really doesn't know much about classical music).

In other news, Hank Green just made a neat video on synesthesia, if anyone wants to know more about it. watch?v=vEqmNX8uKlA

* * *

Colour blind

Part 5

The very day after Harry's, er, conversation with Draco, he headed up to the eighth floor corridor with a skip in his step and invisibility cloak at hand. Although Draco had sort of kind of given his consent with his "whatever," Harry still got the vibe that he really didn't want him there. So he'd decided that at first, he'd go in his invisibility cloak like he'd said he could, since Draco kept saying he didn't want to see Harry. Maybe this'd appease him somewhat, and then after a while Draco would be alright with Harry going to listen/watch without the need for the cloak. Harry was feeling almost giddy with the hope of it.

Draco was already there, playing another Beethoven by the sound of it… something dark, at least. Harry was very careful as he slowly opened the door just wide enough to slip through. Tip-toeing and crouching a bit so that the cloak would cover him, he made his way over to his typical seat in the pews. Slowly, he felt himself relaxing, despite the fact that it wasn't really all that relaxing a piece. Draco's adroit fingers jumped across the keys, hitting them at a brutal pace. A thousand colours unfurled before Harry's eyes, painting a landscape of cool darks and angry brown-reds…

When Draco removed his hands from the piano, the last resounding note hanging in the air, Harry felt the absurd urge to applaud. But that was a stupid idea, because then Draco would know he was there and he couldn't have that…

"I know you're there, Potter."

Oh. Well bugger. At least he didn't sound horrendously angry. More… resigned. Harry pulled off the cloak.

"Er, hi?"

"Why'd you wear your cloak again? I thought I told you not to."

"Er…" Harry wracked his brain for the transcript of their conversation that he'd tried to memorize. "No, I don't think you did… Yeah, I offered to wear my cloak and you said something about me being, er, presumptuous or something, but you didn't say anything about the cloak so I just assumed that it'd be better for me to wear it, at least at first, because then you could still pretend that I'm not there and just play like you usually do and ignore me but I'll still be able to listen and… yeah…" He trailed off when it occurred to him that he was rambling and probably looked like an idiot.

"Well don't. Wear it, I mean. If you're going to eavesdrop I'd rather be able to see you. It's unsettling, otherwise. Well, more unsettling than it has to be."

"Alright, I won't wear it. I'll just sit here, then, if that's alright?" Draco just stared at him. "Er, right. Don't mind me." He waved his hand a little, as if to say, go on.

For a moment Draco just gazed at him, his expression one of vague distaste. Then he slowly turned back to the piano, glanced once more at Harry, and began to play again. At first the notes sounded reserved, hesitant, but it was clear that he quickly got absorbed in the music and forgot about Harry completely. Which was perfectly fine with Harry; he was content to watch Draco's fingers jump around, barely touching the keys before being off on the next cadence.

* * *

"Today, as I'm sure you are all aware of, is the exam covering Manticores, Chimeras, and the abscindo curse," said Sanguini the next day. It was Monday, and the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom once more resembled a classroom—desks were arranged in neat rows with fidgeting students sitting two to a table. Harry was next to Ron, with Hermione at the desk to his right. He turned around and quickly scanned the room, identifying Draco towards the back, looking put out as usual. He turned back to face the front with a small smile on his face.

"There's no cause for anxiety; since you were all such experts at the curse, this test should be quite simple."

Of course, this pronouncement caused a wave of fearful murmurings amongst the students. Sanguini coughed into his hand and they fell silent.

"You have one hour, and I'm confident that you'll all be able to finish in the allotted time. Begin."

Frightfully thick scrolls appeared on their desks and there was a general flurry as everyone rushed to begin the first question. After which, the only sound that could be heard was the scratching of quills and the occasional cough from their professor. Harry wondered vaguely if he was trying to distract them—it wouldn't really surprise him—before he shook his head and tried to concentrate.

"Buggering Merlin that test was impossible!" cried Ron later as they walked to History of Magic.

"Ron! Language!" said Hermione. "Oh dear, I think I messed up on problem thirty four. Was it 1743 or 1437? I thought it was 1743 but was that when Malcom Merrington first identified the chimera or…"

"Harry, mate, I bet you thought it was a piece of pie, right? Since you killed the manticore so easily and all."

"I don't know…" said Harry, shifting his bag. "I think missing that week might not have been a good thing after all."

"I _told_ you you should have come anyway," said Hermione. And she had. Twenty times.

Harry shrugged. It'd been nice having an extra free period for a week. He'd even finished his Transfiguration essay before Hermione, and the look on her face when she saw was probably worth the bad score on his test.

* * *

That evening, after dinner, Harry went up to the music wing. He left his invisibility cloak in Gryffindor Tower.

Draco was playing something dark again, dark and fast. Harry wondered what it said about his mood. In all the time that he'd been coming to listen, he had yet to hear a cheerful song. The only thing that came anywhere close was the berceuse that he'd heard the first time. But even that was more of a melancholy, bitter-sweet happiness. It put a funny taste in his mouth, thinking about all of this. What would it take for Draco to play a Mozart, instead of Beethoven?

And he didn't even want to think about the fact that Draco hadn't sung anything since Harry'd started listening without the cloak.

Throughout the first and second pieces, Draco never looked at Harry. He was fully absorbed in the piano, and Harry was fully absorbed in watching Draco play. It was, as always, mesmerising, and the music and colours resonated in his bones long after the last note was hit.

When Draco spoke, it was such a surprise that Harry jumped and hit his knee on the pew in front of him.

"How did you do it?" he asked.

For a moment, Harry could only stare at him. Was this… this was Draco initiating a conversation. Harry hadn't done anything at all but sit unobtrusively, and Draco had begun talking, talking to him… something seemed to tickle inside his chest.

"Huh?" he said. Of course, the first thing that came out of his mouth was oh so articulate. "Um, er, what?"

"How did you do it?" Draco repeated. There was something bitter in his voice… but what else was new? He was speaking to Harry.

"Do what?" Harry was still feeling bewildered by the sole fact that _Draco was talking to him_. Also, he had no idea what he was talking about.

"Kill it. Kill the Manticore. How did you?"

"I, er, well. I don't know."

That earned him a narrowing of eyes.

"No, really, I don't. I mean, it was talking and… and I just got really angry, you know? And then I cast the curse, and it just worked."

Draco shook his head. "That's not possible. You're only eighteen, and that was the second time you'd even tried the spell."

"Yeah, well, I guess I was just really angry. I just wanted it to _shut up_."

"No, no, that's not enough," said Draco. He picked up the strip of velvet from the top of the piano and carefully laid it over the keys. "A Manticore is a level five magical creature. A level _five_. I don't care how angry you were, there's no way you could have—it shouldn't have died just like that."

"Maybe I'm just good at battling dark creatures, did you think of that?" Harry felt a bit defensive, and the fluttery feeling settled down in the pit of his stomach. It was obviously possible; he'd done it. So why was Draco so disbelieving?

"Potter. A level five. Even the most powerful, most experienced wizards have difficulty killing level five creatures. It must have been severely weakened beforehand…"

"Uh, I did kill a basilisk. When I was twelve. What's a basilisk classified as?"

Draco ran his hands over the velvet, smoothing it out even though there weren't any wrinkles to begin with.

"Five," mumbled Draco. "But that was sheer dumb luck, and wasn't it blinded before you had to deal with it? Like I said, weakened. Did you use another spell on the manticore beforehand? A potion, maybe?"

"No! How could I have; that was the first time I saw it, same as everyone else."

Harry stared at Draco, something slimy rising in his throat. Draco ignored him, smoothing his thumbs over the glassy surface of the lid before putting it down.

"Why is it so hard to believe that I could actually kill it, with my own power? In case you somehow missed it, I did also kill Voldemort last year. Oh, that's right, you were too busy running away to be there!"

"Why was I evacuating?" Draco turned to face Harry then, sudden. "Oh yeah, it's because I didn't have my wand to fight with; _you_'d stolen it. I seem to recall that it was _my _wand that you used to kill him! What, couldn't rely on your own? Did it decide it didn't like having such an incompetent idiot as a master?"

"It _broke_, you—"

"Right, your mudblood girlfriend snapped it in half. Did she forget what it was? Thought it was just another twig, did she?"

Silence followed Draco's harsh remark. Harry was suddenly glad that several pews and meters separated them. For the first time in over a year, he had the urge to punch the scowl off of Draco's smarmy face. Or get out his wand and practice his hexing skills, whichever one was more effective in shutting him up. The feeling was so strangely alien, yet incredibly familiar—built up over seven years of mutual hatred—that it completely threw Harry.

"I… I've got class," he said, even though he rather thought that there was still fifteen minutes before he had to leave for Herbology.

Draco just glared at him as he hastily slung his bag over his shoulder and strode out the door, forcing himself to look ahead and not glance back towards the piano.

* * *

Harry walked up the bajillion flights of steps to Gryffindor tower, completely composed and not at all fazed by his argument with Draco—no, Malfoy, the prat. He most certainly wasn't _stomping_, no that would have indicated that he'd been _fazed_, and he most certainly had not been. At all. Not in the least. Harry quarrelled with Malfoy all the time, it was practically rote, why on earth should he single this time out by being fazed by it? The answer was, obviously, that he shouldn't. And he wasn't. At all. Not in the least.

Merlin, why were there so many stairs? Who the hell had designed this castle? Harry wracked his brain, trying to find any scrap of information that he might have remembered from seven years of History of Magic lessons, or, at the very least, lectures from Hermione quoted from Hogwarts, a History. Surely he'd remember something. Nope, not even a bit; nothing was forthcoming.

Well, whoever it was, they were rather daft in Harry's esteemed opinion. Honestly, who designs a dormitory in a tower? Actually, two dormitories, Harry amended as he remembered the Ravenclaw tower. Or in the dungeons. Who knew where the Hufflepuff common room was, but Harry was sure it would be in another horribly impractical place. And then, on top of that, whose great idea was it to make the stairs _move_? It made getting up to Gryffindor a thousand times harder than it needed to be.

It was also what had started this whole sordid business in the first place. Bloody _Malfoy_.

He said the password nice and politely, really; the fat lady had no right to be so indignant.

"My, someone has their knickers in a twist," she huffed as she swung open to admit him. Harry ignored her.

Ron and Hermione were sitting on the couch in front of the fire. No, wait, they were sitting on an armchair by the fire. One that Harry was pretty sure had been designed with a single person capacity. Never mind that it could fit a rather large single person, like Uncle Vernon for example. It was the principle of the thing that counted.

They were staring at each other in a disgustingly soppy manner. Harry felt like throwing up all over them.

"Hello," Harry said sharply.

It looked as if they were surfacing from the depths of something unpleasant, like love. Love soup, or something. Eurgh.

"Oh Hello, Harry," said Hermione.

"Hullo," said Ron. He turned to look at him, which was apparently quite a difficult feat. Harry wondered who'd glued Ron's eyes to Hermione as his friend gave him an once-over. "Man, what crawled up your arse and died?"

Harry scowled at him.

"Ron!" chided Hermione, smacking him lovingly.

"Malfoy," said Harry in answer to Ron's question. "Well, not literally. That would be… odd."

Ron snorted.

"Malfoy?" questioned Hermione. "Not Draco? Oh my, what on earth happened?"

"He's an insufferable prat, that's what happened."

"Glad to see you've finally seen the light."

"Oh, hush, Ronald. Harry, what happened? Did you argue?"

"Yeah, and he was being a stupid git." Harry paced in front of the fire, the indignation roiling inside of him spurring him to keep moving. "I was just sitting there, and everything was going fine, and then he started talking to me out of the blue…"

"He started talking to you? Was he insulting you?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Isn't that a good thing? I would have thought you'd be happy if he initiated conversation."

"Well, yes, I was happy. At first. But he was asking how I killed the manticore, and I told him I didn't know, and then he started getting mad and stuff, saying it was impossible, for no reason! I mean, obviously it _was _possible, I did it, didn't I? But he just kept going on about how I couldn't have done it; I wasn't powerful enough and stuff…"

Ron and Hermione listened to him rant for a couple more minutes. Well, Hermione listened attentively. Ron was staring into space, probably contemplating the life and times of dust motes or something equally fascinating.

When Harry had run out of steam, for now, Hermione looked to be struggling with something.

"Um, I'm sorry to say this, but Draco's kind of right."

"What?"

Hermione winced at Harry's outraged tone. And she was right to! Why on earth was she taking Malfoy's side on this?

"Actually, I've been wondering the same thing. It's not that I don't think you're a powerful wizard," she said quickly, as if Harry needed to be appeased.

"I'm not—I don't think I'm a powerful wizard!" said Harry, just now realizing how bratty he must have sounded, complaining about how Draco didn't think he was powerful enough. "That's not the point!"

"But," Hermione continued, ignoring Harry's outburst for the moment. "Successfully performing the _abscindo_ curse on your second try is incredibly improbable, even for you."

"I keep telling everyone, I was really, really angry! Doesn't that make any difference?"

"Of course it does, but even being furious isn't enough. There's a reason why a manticore is classified as an xxxxx dark creature, Harry, and there's a reason why Professor Sanguini didn't think any of us had a chance of killing it."

"But I did! I don't understand why you guys are even debating it!"

"I know you did, Harry. That's why I haven't brought it up; I'm just saying that Draco had a very valid question."

Harry felt like grinding his teeth at her coddling tone. He turned to Ron. Surely his best friend would stand by him on this front, at least. But Ron was studiously not looking at him; apparently he was on Hermione's side.

"Ron! Don't you think they're being ridiculous? What is there even to debate! I killed it!"

"I'm totally with you, mate," said Ron, rubbing his neck. "But I don't think it's that big of a deal, is it? I mean, who cares if Malfoy's being a prat? He's probably just jealous; I just don't think it's anything to get upset over."

"Exactly," said Hermione, smiling at Ron in a besmitten way. "It's curious that you were able to kill it, but I'm sure Ron's right in that Draco's just jealous."

"That's stupid," said Harry. "There's nothing to be jealous of."

"Oh come on," said Ron. "I know that it's tough for you, but it doesn't look that way from the outside. To everyone else you really do look great, with your exciting life and your talent at defence and everything. I didn't think I'd ever say this, and if you ever mention it again I'll have to AK you, but I can sort of relate. You did kill that manticore awfully easily, while the rest of us were struggling to get it to react at all."

"I know that. I get that people think it'd be great to be me," said Harry, thinking of fourth year, "but it's still frustrating. And I thought…" He thought Draco would understand, at least partially, some of what it was like. He wasn't one of the general populous who only heard about the war and Harry Potter's great heroics through the prophet. For some reason he found himself feeling disappointed. "I thought he might have wanted to talk to me for another reason, not just to spout off his insecurities," Harry finished rather lamely.

"Oh Harry," said Hermione. "But he let you listen in to him play, right? And he did initiate conversation, even if it devolved into an argument in the end. That's at least something, right?"

"Yeah… Look, I think I'm just going to head up to bed. See you guys in the morning."

Harry turned around as Ron and Hermione bid him goodnight. He didn't want to see what was sure to be displayed on Hermione's face, in her eyes.

Harry knew what she thought: that Harry was desperate for every bit of attention Draco would give him, that he worshiped Draco like the sun shined out of his arse and that Harry's every mood depended on tiny actions on Draco's part. Okay, maybe not that extreme, but basically that he was a pathetic, thirteen-year-old girl.

And Harry had to walk away from that, from seeing Hermione radiate that opinion, otherwise he may very well have snapped at her. Because it was patently _not true_.

Sure, he rather liked to look at Draco, and sure, it made him happy when he got to talk to Draco, but it wasn't as if he were _in love_ or anything. No, really. He honest to god hadn't gone blind overnight; the lack of colour in his vision didn't mean that he couldn't see that Draco was and always will be a colossal prat. Harry was gay, and he thought Draco looked quite pretty in a pointy, colourless sort of way. Harry was also the saviour of the wizarding world. He'd been fighting his entire life because certain people had very firm opinions about certain other people, and basically thought they were better, superior.

Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin, and a rather reluctant used-to-be Death Eater.

Harry liked to think that Draco had changed in the war; after all he'd seen and done. And Harry liked to think that he himself had changed as well, that he was now, not _better_, per say, but at least somewhat _above_ the previous generation of hidebound wizards. He knew that he'd been quite close-minded before, but hopefully he was changing, growing. Hopefully he was taking Sirius's words to heart.

_The world isn't split into good people and death eaters…_

Of course, Sirius had said it rather flippantly, and he was talking about Umbridge at the time, but Harry thought that perhaps it worked the other way too…

Draco didn't mean so much to him because of inane teenage hormones, although that did play a part. But it was more than that, and so it made Harry so irritated when people brushed it off. And that's why he'd thought it had been sort of a _big deal_, to quote Ron, because Draco was being so… so… so _petty_. And then there was that sense of disappointment again.

* * *

"I'm sorry about last night," Harry said the next morning at breakfast.

"Oh Harry," said Hermione. Harry concentrated on the whorls of green in pink that slowly revolved before his eyes instead of her tone of voice. "There's nothing to apologize for."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, I did make a big deal about it, and it's really not that important. I shouldn't have whinged so much."

"It's okay," she said, and put her hand on his. "Really, I get it."

Harry looked up from their hands and met her eyes. What he saw in them surprised him. It wasn't the pity he was expecting, but rather a simple kindness and understanding.

"I know how much you hate it when people are jealous. And I get that he's burning every bridge you try to build. I can see how much you're trying, for all of us. And he's trying too, just give him some time."

Harry felt like he may have underestimated Hermione.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and meant it more this time.

"It's alright," was Hermione's reply, and she was smiling that kind smile again. In that moment, Harry really saw what Ron liked about her. He'd been wondering, since it obviously wasn't the know-it-all-ness. Now, it was clear to him. Harry wasn't the only one who'd matured through the war.

He smiled. "Thanks."

She nodded and turned to chat with Neville. "Now about the bimble root, do its corroding properties come from the stamen or…"

* * *

Harry was going to get a headache again, if this kept up.

They were in the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom, and Sanguini had yet to arrive. Since the last class had been a test, they'd be starting something new today, and what they could possibly learn next was a subject of avid speculation. Students were coming up with all kinds of bizarre ideas in little groups, and just that much chattering would be difficult on Harry's eyes, but of course the general din had escalated exponentially, as it generally does, when the time to start class had come and passed with no sign of their teacher.

So there were people speculating on their new unit, and people speculating on what happened to Sanguini, and then there were people like Hermione.

"Oh goodness do you think he'll give us back our tests today?" she was saying. Somewhat frantically, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "I do hope so, but you can never really tell with teachers. Although he does seems like the type who would grade quickly… but then again I could also see him as the more lazy type who gives back your tests at the end of term when he has to. If he does give them back to us, do you think he'll hand them out at the beginning of class or at the end? Oh I do hope he's not one of those professors who think that we'll be distracted all class by the test if they give it to us at first. Don't they see that we'll be more distracted with worry if they don't?" She went to tuck her hair behind her ear again, only to find that it was already tucked. "Will he tell us the average score? Do you think he'll write our grades on the top of the page or will we have to add up all of the corrections to see what we got? I rather think that Professor Sanguini would be the type to—"

Just then, to Harry's great relief, Sanguini walked into the room.

"I apologize for my tardiness," he said quietly. They had no trouble hearing him; the room had fallen silent upon his arrival. "I was playing a rather vigorous game of hanky panky with my dear Poppy, and I'm afraid I lost all track of the time."

Harry couldn't tell how much of that statement was true, but even if it was a complete lie the image of the pallid Sanguini and Madame Pomfrey doing anything remotely intimate was horribly burned into his retina. It appeared that even Hermione had forgotten about the tests in the light of that horrifying scene.

"In any case, today we will be beginning to study a new spell, as I'm sure you all, in your vast intellect, have already gathered. Does anyone know what it is I'll be introducing today?" Harry could almost hear the crickets in the background. "Ah, yes, I'm positively tickled pink at the amount of seer talent evident in this room. Well, I'll just tell you all. For the next two weeks, we'll be studying the Patronus charm in great depth."

Hermione's arm flew into the air. Sanguini stared at her, and she hesitantly lowered it as she began to speak. "But, sir, isn't the patronus charm, well, a charm? Why aren't we learning it from Professor Flitwick?"

"Astute observation, Hermione. Why yes, as a matter of fact, the patronus charm does happen to fall into the charms category. A couple years back, however, it was deemed too advanced for Hogwarts students, and was removed from the curriculum entirely. It has been made clear, however, that it is not too advanced by any means." He coughed and looked pointedly at Harry. "Since the charms curriculum has already been set, I offered to teach the Patronus charm since it is a form of defence against the dark arts.

"Now I know for a fact that no one in this class has any idea what a patronus even is, so would anyone like to tell me?"

Hermione, quite predictably, threw her hand into the air. It was, again quite predictably, ignored. Whatever else he was, Sanguini was a fair teacher and preferred some sort of diversity in student participation. Harry was pleased to see that Neville's hand was also raised and quite steadily high as well. Sanguini called on him.

"A Patronus is sort of like a positive force that protects against Dementors, sir."

"Correct. I don't suppose anyone would like to elaborate," sighed Sanguini. "Ah surprise surprise. Yes, alright, Hermione?"

"There are two forms of Patronus, sir, non-corporeal and corporeal. A non-corporeal Patronus looks like smoke or vapour, and while it's effective at halting Dementors it doesn't work to repel them and is considered a lesser version of the charm. The corporeal Patronus takes the form of an animal that reflects the personality of the caster, much like an animagus, and is very effective in protecting the caster and forcing Dementors to flee. The incantation is _Expecto Patronum_, and in order to successfully cast it the caster must concentrate on a powerfully happy memory, because the Patronus is comprised of positive feelings, thus rendering it immune to…

Harry picked at his desk. Someone had carved MANNY X DAVID into the wood. The varnish was chipping off around the edges, and Harry idly wondered who Manny and David were. Probably Hufflepuffs.

"Very good; Hermione just gave a very thorough explanation of the Patronus charm," said Sanguini. Hermione looked horrified. "You all seem to be focusing on the Dementor aspect of the charm, but there is more to it than that. A Patronus is also the only thing that will defend against a Lethifold, and there is another use for Patronuses, invented by Albus Dumbledore, which is perhaps the most practical use. If one is competent enough, it is possible to use Patronuses as a method of communication. This is a very secure method, as a Patronus cannot be blocked by physical or magical barriers, and unlike an owl it cannot be tracked. The only detriment is that each person's Patronus is unique, thus making it quickly identifiable.

"Now I've been informed that a few of you can already perform the Patronus charm, so this is what the schedule for the next two weeks is going to look like. Today we will work on practicing the charm, and those of you who know it can assist those who don't. For the next week, your homework will be to practice it in your own time, as this is a very individual-oriented piece of magic and the amount of practice you require will vary from person to person. On Friday we will see how far each of you have gotten, and then the week after that will be more practice if you need it. Once you've mastered the corporeal Patronus, your homework will be to write an essay on your Patronus' animal form and what it reflects about your personality. This essay will be due next Friday, and should be at least two feet long.

"While you work on your Patronuses outside of class, in class we will focus on learning about Dementors and Lethifolds.

"Now for the next ten minutes, try to think of the happiest memory you have. At the end of this time, we'll begin practice."

Harry slouched in his chair and blew at his fringe, trying to make it fly up out of his eyes. He glanced at Ron who was doodling in his textbook. Harry tilted his head and leaned over slightly to get a look at what he was drawing. It appeared to be a rather horrible rendition of Sanguini. Harry smiled a little bit when he saw that it closely resembled the scribble of Snape Ron did in first year, only this one had fangs. Ron looked up and caught Harry's eye, then grinned, quite obviously saying, _isn't this great? The next two weeks are gunna be a walk in a park! _Harry nodded, returning his grin, and then turned to see Hermione's reaction.

She appeared to be somewhat distraught. She was looking from him to Sanguini, and Harry could predict what she would say as soon as the ten minutes were up and it would be considered acceptable to talk. _Can you believe this? We're not going to learn anything new for two weeks! Oh dear, two weeks wasted! Do you think Sanguini will give me extra work if I ask him to?_

Harry ducked his head to hide his smile.

He managed to waste three minutes discreetly carving a star into the desk before he couldn't ignore the little urge any more. Slowly, he turned around and tried to eye Draco through his fringe.

As per usual, Draco had seated himself near the back corner. His eyes were closed, but not scrunched, yet Harry could tell he was deep in concentration because his eyebrows were slightly furrowed. As Harry watched, his mouth pursed and the pencil line between his eyebrows became more pronounced. Draco ducked his head down slowly, his white hair fell forward, and his shoulders tensed a bit. Harry wondered what he was thinking of. Surely Draco, with his spoiled childhood, would be able to find a happy memory easily?

When the ten minutes was finally up, Harry sighed in relief and got out of his chair, stretching. Ten minutes wasn't all that long, but it seemed like forever with nothing to do.

For the rest of the class period, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville walked around and gave tips to the other students and answered any questions. It was a bit nostalgic, and Harry felt a brief pang of remorse as he thought about the DA. He shook his head and corrected someone's wand arm. Things were different now. Harry casually glanced back to where Draco was flicking his wand and incanting, and having no luck whatsoever. He was putting the inflection on the wrong part of the word, and his wand movement was too stilted.

Harry wandered over, staring at his destination the whole time. As he got closer, Draco glanced up and caught his eye. He scowled and glared fiercely, his defensive stance clearly hissing, _shove off! _Harry blinked. Well, alright then, if Draco wanted to be as prickly as a cactus then let him. Harry turned around and meandered back the other direction. Maybe some other, less stupidly hostile Slytherin would let him help.

* * *

The rest of the week passed… rather slowly actually. Slughorn was focusing on Polyjuice for the next month and without new classwork from two of their classes, Harry, Ron, and Hermione found themselves with a lot of free time. Hermione, of course, was distraught and spent the time studying excessively for her other subjects. By Wednesday she'd finished her essay for Sanguini and had run to Slughorn begging for an extra potion to study. Ron spent his time lounging around and playing exploding snap, or flipping through Quidditch magazines, or sneaking to the kitchen to get snacks, much to the chagrin of Hermione.

Harry, at first, was excited. He thought more free time would mean more time spent on the eighth floor with Draco. But Draco only came once a day, if that, and he always gave off the impression of an angered porcupine, so Harry didn't try to talk to him at all. This left Harry with a stupid amount of nothing to do, and he still made his way to the auditorium every free period he shared with Draco because he didn't know when Draco would show up. This meant a great deal of sitting in the pews, staring at the closed piano, and feeling dissatisfied and restless by the lack of music. He hadn't realized how much he'd grown to depend on those moments of colourful reprieve until it was made scarce. Sure, he'd gotten pretty much used to the jumble of colours and shapes that followed him around in the crowded halls, but without Draco's piano putting them in order every couple periods they began to look more and more like chaos and more often than not, Harry fell into bed at night with a dull headache.

He took to bringing Quidditch Through the Ages and sitting in the little courtyard on the eighth floor. When Draco came, he would walk past the garden without glancing at Harry, but Harry could see him through the stone arches and would follow him into the music room where Draco would play for a while and Harry would listen, letting the waves of colour sooth his headache and boredom.

Draco never talked to him.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm trying to decide what Draco's Patronus should be. If anyone has any strong opinions about it, or just general ideas, I'd love to hear them! Otherwise, I'll probably do a ton of research and then end up picking my favourite animal. :]


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